


The Passenger

by roxymissrose



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Sam, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:22:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 68,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25123861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roxymissrose/pseuds/roxymissrose
Summary: This is a post-plague curtain fic.Dean Winchester, an MoL errand boy and a bit of a rogue, meets Sam, a hot-tempered and mouthy skinwalker—and illegal slave. Of course, Dean can't let that stand, so cue the rescue, over the mountains and away. They find themselves trapped in a cabin over the long, long season of climate-changed winter.  One handsome hunter, one angry 'walker.However will they survive?
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 146
Kudos: 151





	1. Prolouge

**Author's Note:**

> There are links to songs specific to the 70s and very early 80s in the story, which is when the world stopped. I included those links because why not? I thought it'd be fun. The child prostitution is not graphic, but it's an important part of Sam's story. Cursing, there's a lot of cursing.
> 
> The art is by [phoenix1966](https://phoenix1966.livejournal.com/38100.html), and I think makes the story that much better. Be sure to visit her page, enjoy the amazing work and leave her kudos!
> 
> written for the SpN_J2 2020 big bang

**John**  
**1983**  
Dean was sleeping in the back seat, snoring those little baby snores that made John's chest clench up, half with love, half with dread at not being able to protect him. He sighed. This was no fucking life for a four year old. Patient, good little thing that he was. They'd been on the road for a long time now, stopping only to hunt for gas, for something to eat, mostly sleeping in the car. Running across occasional enclaves of people, mostly decent encounters—everyone was still too desperate trying to live to organize against each other. He'd had a close call or two, and the last place they'd come from, there'd been an old guy who talked to him about monsters for God's sake. He claimed they were out there, ghosts and goblins and ghouls. He'd been damn serious about it too. John glanced back at his son, relived to see he was still sleeping heavily, smiling at the sight of him curled up in a tatty blanket he'd somehow claimed as his. 

That Elkins guy...he wished the fuck he could have said the guy was crazy—there were a hell of a lot of crazy people wandering the roads these days. Hell, he was kind of crazy himself. But on one of the nights he and Dean had stayed in Elkins' compound, there'd been a pounding at the gate, and a weird, warbly howling that took him too long to realize was a person calling for someone, several someones. Begging them to open the gate, for them to save whoever it was howling like an animal out there.

A young woman named Tamara had had to be restrained from going to her husband—what had been her husband. John would never forget her name, never, not for the rest of his life. Looking over the gate John saw a shambling, half-rotted thing shuffling around in circles, staggering towards the gate and rebounding against it over and over, and its whited-out eyes rolling as it called, mindlessly, over and over, "Tamara, help me, Tamara, help me, let me in—"

John shuddered even now, thinking about it. Elkins claimed it was part ghost, part ghoul, and that some strange, unexplained plague had brought the monsters out in the open at the same time it killed them—most types anyway—along with the humans. "Fucked some of them up good. Here's the trick, though—salt, iron, silver, copper—still good things to have. Copper will kill almost anything silver won't and iron will fuck them up a piece, too."

The day they'd left the enclave, Elkins had cut a long, measured look at Dean, his eyes going dark as he did. John remembered, how he thought he recognized the look—he'd heard about certain types of diseased men who preyed on the vulnerable. Even now, his lip curled in a reflexive snarl, thinking about it, and how he'd started reaching for the small of his back and the gun he'd tucked there, a Colt he'd found pretty as you please on the side of the road. A slick, pretty thing—and fucking handy for situations like this.

The ivory grip had been cool and smooth under his fingers, and he'd almost tugged it free when the old man broke the heavy silence. 

"You know what, boy? You need to talk to Bobby Singer. He don't have the same field experience I've had—he's a young one like you, but that man can help. He's smart as a whip; got a shit ton of info on the very things I been talking to you about. He'll teach you what you need to know to keep that precious little one of yours safe." He gave John a map and directions. "I got no idea what it looks like out there in the larger world—we all came here and hunkered down for the worst. Were some shocked when it turned out to be not too bad—poor 'Mara's tragedy notwithstanding. After the Monster plague, we tend to count anything like that as...well, hate to say it, but it's a small price to pay for the safety we got here. Not that I'd ever look that woman in the eye and say such a thing…" 

He shook himself and John just nodded. Hell, he didn't judge the enclave for feeling like that. They were right. Anyone who'd watched loved ones, their homes, their entire community be put to the torch had to understand the old man.

"Thanks. Bobby Singer, hunh?"

"Yeah," Elkins rasped out a laugh. "Hard-head, like you. You all oughta get along like a house on fire." He glanced at Dean again and frowned. "I'm torn between insisting you go and insisting you stay. It's a fuckin' harsh, nasty world out there, and our children are the only treasure that matters anymore," he said, shaking his head sadly.

Yeah. John winced, shamed at the mistaken direction his thoughts had taken back then; he'd almost blown a hole in an old man who was only worried about the future.

John had thanked him again, then picked his son up, bundled him out to the car. He'd tucked Dean into the back seat, said a prayer and turned the ignition. The old, black beast, faithful as ever, had shuddered and rumbled, grumbling loudly before settling into a steady low roar, and leaping out onto the road. 

Now, picking his way down a mostly clear road, thank God, he wondered how long he was going to be able to run his girl. Gas was getting harder to find, and she was getting a mite cranky. "I'm not gonna leave you on the side of the road like your former owner did, Baby, not if I can help it—promise," he murmured, patting the dash with a self-conscious grin.

Dean inhaled suddenly, a long, shaky intake of air, before letting it go and settling again. John smiled softly, taking a moment to be the man he used to be, and pushed a cassette into the player. They drove on, the sounds of [BB King](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b5D_ELKJbe4) filling the car. _Stormy Monday..._ John nodded, fingers on the steering wheel keeping time as they drove on, weaving around wrecks and damaged sections of road, heading towards some guy named Singer that he hoped was going to give his boy a chance to stretch his legs and breathe again.

  
Phoenix1966

**Dean  
1985**

Dean shot up in bed, almost falling out, crying without even feeling it. Smoke filled the air, and heat—too much heat; felt his feet burning as he ran down the hall of their house, and then Daddy came swooping in out of nowhere to sweep him off his feet into his arms, his bathrobe flying out around him like a cape, like a superhero. Daddy jumped through a window and flew over the lawn, coming to a soft landing in the neighbor's driveway and Dean shuddered, blinking into the darkness as the flashing lights faded, the sirens dying down into a steady mutter that was the sound of other people moving about in other rooms.

That...that hadn't happened at all. He blinked again, wiping his face as he did, and looked down at his hand, puzzled. His hand was wet, his face was cool. He scrubbed hard, drying the evidence away. He didn't want Daddy to know he'd been crying. 

Daddy flying though, that had been a real weird ending to the dream. He dreamed about their old street pretty frequently, and the stuff that had happened that night. Nowadays he wasn't sure all his memories were real because even though he dreamed about it so much all the dreams ended some weird or bad way, really bad...only the part with his mommy dying always ended the same. 

One day she coughed and went to bed and then she never got out of bed again. She just coughed and coughed until she stopped, like she does now in every dream he has about her. After the day she did really stop coughing, the army men came and took her, along with most of the neighbors, down to the end of the street and set everything on fire. It looked like a bonfire, only bigger, and he remembered how it smelled so bad.

He remembered too that the Smiths' house caught on fire and the army men didn't even care, just kept pouring gasoline or whatever it was on the people who died and all their stuff.. Daddy held him in his arms and cried right along with Dean; Dean remembered that because after that night, Daddy didn't cry anymore. The army men gave Daddy something in a little bag, he was pretty sure it was money but Daddy didn't say. Then they made him and Daddy and some neighbors get on a truck. He watched his street burn as they drove away, and whispered against the glass, "Bye-bye, Mommy." 

That was the end of their regular life. 

Dean rolled to his side, wrapped himself around his pillow and thought. He was six now. What happened was a long time ago. Uncle Bobby told him once that things were better now, there weren't any fires anymore. He said all that happened two years ago and kinda hinted that Dean didn't really remember all that he said he did. That maybe he was just repeating what he'd heard, but no. He didn't say so to Uncle Bobby, but he was dead wrong. Dean remembered all of it and it didn't matter that it was probably a long, long time ago. 

He was older now than he was back then, of course. Six was older. He sure felt older; he felt tired and older and empty inside. Alone. He wished he had a friend. A sister or a brother. Wouldn't that be nice? A brother—he could play ball and stuff with him. He tapped his fingers together: one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four, and imagined his brother and him being Batman and Robin—'course he was Batman 'cause he was the older brother—until he fell asleep again. This time he dreamed about a little boy who was his brother, who smiled real wide, and had shaggy brown hair, green eyes, stupid freckles and pointy ears just like his. 

When he woke up again, Daddy was there, sitting on the end of the bed. Daddy's eyes were red, the way his own eyes got if he cried too much and then rubbed too hard to make himself stop. Daddy smelled like pretty flowers and the brown stuff he drank sometimes, and a little like the sticks Uncle Bobby and him smoked sometimes. His shirt was buttoned wrong, and Dean tried not to laugh at Daddy's mistake. He probably could laugh and it would be okay—Daddy didn't look sad, and he didn't look like something was sneaking right up behind him; he looked like that a lot. 

He reached out and rubbed a hand over and through Dean's hair, ruffling it around all crazy. Dean grinned, despite being pretty sleepy. It was nice when Daddy smiled, and he smiled a lot in this town.

"Hey, Champ. Don't worry about getting up yet, I'm gonna wash up and catch some zees before we hit the road."

"We're not gonna stay so's you c'n visit your frien' again?" 

"Nah, I got a need to move on a bit. It's been fun staying here, but it's time to pull up stakes."

"Okay." Didn't make much difference to Dean. He'd hardly stepped outside, especially not when Daddy left him alone. _Stay inside, lock the door, don't open it to anybody who doesn't know the secret password._ Dean was a good soldier; Daddy said so. He wasn't going to let anyone in, no way, even though the other people didn't scare him at all. They were nice, here at the Mo-tel. That's what Daddy called it. Dean figured it was an okay place even if it smelled like washrags when you rolled them in a ball and packed them away wet. 

Daddy walked out with a bucket, but he was back inside before Dean could count to twelve. He watched Daddy pour the water into a bowl, and then pour something from a little bottle into it. He watched Daddy take his clothes off, and rub a wet rag all over himself, flinging water all over and making Dean laugh. He scrubbed his teeth until they got all foamy, and grinned at Dean when he laughed again. Rinsed and spit, and then winked at him.

He dressed quickly, then packed up their clothes from yesterday and squared away all their gear. "How 'bout we head out to Uncle Bobby's in the morning, kiddo?" he asked.

"Yeah!" Dean yelped, finally feeling some kind of real enthusiasm. Bobby's place was cool—he had a real bedroom there, and a bathroom with running water, and he had a stove too, so they had hot food _every_ day. He could play outside without having Daddy hanging over him like a mama bear. That's what Bobby called it when Dad did that thing like he could hardly let him out of his sight. 

_Yeah._ Dean snuggled back under his blanket, and let out a deep, satisfied sigh. Bobby had pretty good food, and it was clean, and not too many monsters around and nobody coughed anymore anyway. 

A little frown creased his forehead. Besides where Bobby lived, there weren't a lot of people around either. Daddy said there were some families living in the cabins he could just make out back in the trees, and a village farther down the road where he bought the stuff they'd been eating and some supplies for the road, but Daddy had never taken him along; he hardly ever took him to places with a lot of people except Bobby's.

Sometimes Dean thought he remembered there used to be a way lot more people, before Mommy coughed herself into bed.

**Sam  
**  
1987

"Seli-ma," Sam called. "Sam hungry. Food?"

"I'm waiting for one of my friends to come with food—he promised. When he leaves again, then we'll eat, okay?" Seli answered patiently.

He smiled, and went back to stacking a little pile of flat rocks on the floor—his current favorite toy. He looked up when there was a pounding on the door, then towards Seli for direction. She froze, a look of fear on her face. "Go to the back room, hide under the floor. Don't shift," she hissed. "Scoot—now."

He dashed for the other room, shoved aside the mattress on the floor, knocking over the pile of blankets they slept in. There were a few loose boards under the mattress, and ever since he could remember, his mother had drilled into him that when the humans came, if they were angry, get in the hole under the boards. She always told him no matter how much they smiled when they came to visit her, one never knew when they might go mad. Humans were not to be trusted. Treat them delicately, like the snakes that rattled their tails in the leaves.

He'd just pulled up the last board when something snatched his ankle—a human. He heard his ma screaming in the front room. 

"Please, please, let him go! I'll make it better for you, I promise!"

One of the men laughed. "I didn't think they got all that attached to their pups. Watcha got?"

"Boy, maybe a girl, cain't tell with all this hair." The grip on his ankle tightened, and the human holding him swung him back and forth in the air. "So, kill it or sell it?" His world swooped 'round and 'round. He clenched his eyes shut because it was scary. When he opened them again, they were in the front room. With Seli.

Seli-ma was laying on the floor and a man was on top of her, but not like usual with smiles and laughs, and her telling Sam to go back in the other room with the funny voice she used when humans were there. No, she was covered with red, and there was a terrible stink, a stink like she cooked food in grease, but it was too hot, so the grease burned. 

She had a look like she was beginning to shift, and he knew that was bad, bad, bad—never show a human your shift. But her eyes were bright yellow, and her yellow fur was trying to come out and she had a shiny knife stuck in her chest and the skin all around it was black.

"Seli, _Mama,_ Sam scared! Scared!"

"Shut the fuck up!" The human holding him swung him so he hit the wall and it hurt all over; bright silver stars crashing together in his eyes and head.

"Sam! You fucking leave my Sam alone, you--" Seli-Ma roared, like she was shifted all the way even though she wasn't, and she bit the human laying on her. There was a lot of blood and that human went dead. The other human took another shiny knife and stuck it in Seli-Ma and wiggled it back and forth, like when a thorn got caught in the paw, and she screamed even louder. The man yelled, "Fuckin' killer monster bitch!" and there was a loud noise like a door slamming really hard, and something hot and wet and smelling like the inside of a rabbit splashed all over him and his ma was quiet. He screamed—Seli-ma's face looked all funny and wrong.

"Monster freak tryin' to act like it's human. Getty, haul your ass over here and help me get this poor shit offa her. Poor stupid bastard." 

The human holding him by the leg swung him up higher in the air. A big, hair-covered face was suddenly thrust in his. It stunk, like piss, and dead things, and the smoke from fire-rings. "Y'know, we might be able to use this thing ourselves. Bait, somethin'. And it's free."

"It's a fuckin' pup. What the fuck can it do? S' too little ta work. Can't shift or it woulda. Sell it off and let it be someone else's problem. Or kill, like I said first time."

"Don't kill it when we can sell it. Lotsa people got use for a little monster, specially one that looks like it's human, if you get my drift."

"You're a pig, Getty. A fuckin' pig. Still…."

He hung there, blood rushing to his head, pounding in his ears. He cried silent tears for his mother, and for himself. He was scared, Seli-ma was gone dead, and his stomach clenched and danced. A hot rush flowed up his throat; instinct forced his mouth open and he vomited all over the humans leg's and feet. 

"JeezDamn it," it howled, and threw him across the room. Before the black swallowed him up, he heard, "Get them chains out. Just in case."


	2. Chapter 2

**Dean  
2005**

"Jeeezuz-fuck!" Dean swept the wheel to the right, and the old truck gasped and coughed but swung into the other lane, steering around the giant ass pothole that hadn't been there the last time he'd hit this road. "Shit-fuck, Lucille, don’t kill me..." he muttered, the slewing having for some reason set his cassette deck to gargling the tape instead of playing it. "Okay…" He glanced in the back and noted the mole package bag had slid to the floor, but it seemed like it was still sealed, so that was good. The regular mail bag was still on the narrow bench—good for that. 

He chugged steadily along as the road climbed higher and higher, his eyes going back to his rear-view mirror and the thick column of smoke reflected in it, climbing into the sky. Even though these days it was more than likely just garbage fires, or old buildings catching lightening strikes and burning to the ground, the sight of those thick, roiling clouds still had the power to make his gut roll. 

He'd been no bigger than a minute back in those days when those fires were all people, but it had sunk into his baby brain like an instinct and he still got the shakes when he saw them. 

Besides, it hadn't been that long since he'd burned his dad either—just him and Bobby out in the back of what had once upon a time been Bobby's junk yard, Singer's Salvage. They'd made a pyre, and set a torch to it, Uncle Bobby cussing under his breath the whole time. Passing a bottle back and forth between him and Bobby, some stuff Bobby called Real Brand Name booze, that he'd put aside a long, long, long time ago. Hadn't been bad, really. Smooth. Dad would have liked it a lot. 

Course, the damn idiot could have had some too, if he hadn't gone swinging in like fuckin' Tarzan on a clique of chewers—the hunt had gone sideways because instead of the usual small family unit—a boar, sow and one or two shoats—it ended up being a JeezDamn _pack_ of 'em. Fucking Harvelle and his shoot first and research later mentality. 

Dean held the steering wheel in a strangler's grip, his heart beating fast with fury..."Fuck," he huffed, then deflated with a sigh. 

Yeah, hadn't really been Bill's fault, not entirely. He might have pushed to jump the hunt, but chewers—ghouls—weren't known for packing up together, even in starvation times. Just another weird shift in monster behavior, so Bobby said. 

Ghouls. 

Ghouls had made sure he'd lost his dad; Ellen and Jo Harvelle had lost a husband and a father. JeezDamn. Dean shook his head, reached under the dashboard and pulled out a small, silver flask with **J W** engraved on it, took a quick gulp, hissing as not-so-smooth hootch burned a screaming path from throat to gut, and woofed. He flicked a long splash of the stuff out of the open window— _here was to John and Bill, the both of them, may they rest._

'Round about one o'clock, his stomach reminded him that it needed filling, so he cranked Lucille over onto a wide spot at the side of the road, barren sand and rocks that Dad always called a scenic outlook, while snorting bitterly and flashing the bird at whatever was in front of them. His old man had had his issues.

While setting up a quick fire for coffee and reheating some preciously won Ever-Fresh soup, Dean checked his cargo over, debated setting up the radio as well, but eventually decided against it. If the Moles seriously needed to contact him, they'd have a psychic send a poke into his brain. The radio was basically for gossip, or for them to ride his damn ass because they didn't have enough to keep them busy, or so it seemed sometimes. Fucking Moles all thought hunters were shaved apes or something. 

A good cup of coffee, some damn fine soup, couple of biscuits and a smoke later, he checked his watch, did some quick calculations and figured he'd be on the road another couple of hours before he hit the first settlement. This one was a good one; an actual village—houses, farms, with them doing well enough to have surplus goods to trade, even a little store or two, the last time he'd been through. They were doing well enough to start generating mail. He had a few letters to give them, some folks who'd decided to give in to the siren call of city life—all of a thousand folks living cheek to jowl in what remained of an old military base and a small Mole bunker. 

Dean inhaled harsh smoke, and smiled in satisfaction, letting the smoke leak out of the corner of his mouth. He loved runs like this. He loved stopping to spend some time in places where people were beginning to settle, starting to build up some kind of life. Dad hadn't. He'd hated them. Claimed that they were trouble magnets. Well, far as Dean could see, Dad had been a paranoid old grump. Supers weren't any more inclined to hit the new settlements than feral humans, less probably. Especially with the laws out of Colorado and New Kansas giving some kind of rights to human-ish supernatural critters. 

'Dad. JeezusKris, there was one helluva character.' Dean barked out a laugh—part humor, part still-felt frustration. He remembered what stopping was like in the old days. They'd go weeks, sometimes fucking _months_ at a time before finally coming to roost somewhere like crack-winged birds. Then if they were lucky—if _he_ was lucky, Dean thought—they'd camp in old houses, motels, gas stations, someplace where they were actually surrounded by four walls—mostly. 

He remembered one place—he must have been about, what, five, maybe six? Seven at the oldest...anyway, they'd spent some time squatting in a motel, him and Dad and a couple of other families. People were trickling in by dribs and drabs, adding to the small group already living there. It was a loose sort of settlement just about knitting together to become a town or something, all centered around the motel and the people squatting in about a dozen or more log cabins. Dad called them CCC cabins, a name that'd stuck in Dean's head. He'd been shocked to find out, years later, it meant those cabins had been sitting there since the 19-fucking-30s. They sure knew how to built shit to last in those days. It hadn't been a bad place to live, even though Dad used to spend a lot of his nights gone somewhere. 

As he grew out of boy-hood, Dean came to realize that good old Dad had been out getting that itch scratched somewhere. More power to him if he had, it sure must have been one of the last times before he became a dour, old, hunting-obsessed monk. 

Dean grunted, flicking the roach into the fire. Yeah well, his old man might have been a monk, but as for Dean, his right hand wasn't nearly entertaining enough, not after he learned what girls and boys could do together. And especially when he came of age, and many a homestead started in inviting him into share the hearth, on the basis of his good looks and the ability to string together more than a few words and make a coherent sentence—probably considered a good enough sign of decent genes. 

Not that he took advantage of that kind of invite much, and sure as hell not without a lambskin, no matter how much the chicks complained. He didn't like the idea of traveling through towns and finding his face on some kid he didn't know so much so that he'd doubled up on protection. Besides rubbers, which could be hard to get sometimes, he'd bit a bullet and cried tears as a Men of fucking Letters-certified tattoo witch put a _non-repro_ tat on the base of his dick. Hurt like fuck—all his damn tats did. This shit was supposed to be fool-proof, unless he struck through the mark—just thinking of that made him wince. His hand crept into his lap as his hind-brain took over and shielded his dick. So far, he hadn't seen any little Dean or Deanettas around and nobody stopped him on the road, to hold up a baby for him to see, so there was that.

Shaking his head, he leaned forward and spat into the flames. Why the fuck would anybody even want to bring a kid into this shit?

Dean stood, stretched, and took a quick few laps around the area, trying to get himself ready for another stretch of long driving, then cleaned up the area before tossing his shit back in the truck. 

He cranked Lucille over and rummaged around in his box of cassettes—some that he's scrounged up, some he'd inherited from his dad. He was feeling copacetic, but he'd need some entertainment because this stretch coming up was barren, like no fucking joke barren. The miles before had been dull and mostly bare, but the miles coming up were fucking legitimately blighted. Dead beyond dead, like something had exploded in the air above it and burned life right out of the ground, sucked out whatever was vital in it right down to the bedrock.

Some kind of magical nuke, probably, a result of sorcerers mistakenly thinking they were being rooted out and destroyed by the government or by other clans when the plague started killing supers as well as humans. Anyway, nothing grew or lived on or around the road for miles and miles. The area being sterilized like that did have the weird effect of keeping the road in pristine condition, and if you could tolerate the feeling of the earth trying to scream, it wasn't a bad route at all. Enough people had taken it that now it was the backbone of the towns that were way further down the line, _much_ further down. 

He drove quickly, but with an eye out just in case. He was coming to the section where sand and fused glass was giving way to a nightmare's landscape, the edges of the nuked land. Everything around him was dead—skeletal trees, blackened ground, hardly anything taking root again. Further up the side of the mountain, though, life was giving a finger to the disaster. Trees steadily worked their way up the sides, branches fuzzed out with new growth, the land a pale green dotted with gray and yellow as the hardiest of plants tried to bloom, depsite being well past SpringDay now, heading into WinterDay. 

He squinted through the dust building up on the windshield, peering at the desperate green clawing its way up the hillside, and thought, 'Ain't life grand?'

He hit a bump, and Creedence garbled for a second before smoothing out again, drawing his attention back to the player. He snorted and nodded along to the rhythm; holding the wheel with his knees while turning up the radio with one hand and fishing around in the tin next to him 'til he found a smoke amongst the doobs. Tobacco wasn't something he indulged in a lot—the shit was expensive as hell on this side of the mountain. But when he was relaxed like this, full of food and decent caffeine, coasting a little, and suddenly hit with the need to remind himself he was alive, there was nothing like a good smoke, made with import tobacco, by people who knew what they were doing.The squat little roll of beige paper and crisp tobacco caught quickly, blue streamers of smoke escaping out the truck window, along with the percussive beat of[Looking Out My Back Door.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Aae_RHRptRg)

Speaking of smoke, the town at the end of this line was doing pretty well growing what they called Sage, some kind of super-pot. Anyway, Bobby would probably be glad to get some. Dean owed him anyway for putting up with his ass between jobs. He kind of missed smoking with Dad and Bobby...sitting around the campfire and listening to them old dudes spitting bullshit stories about their time in 'Nam, or the big cities there used to be—women, booze, death-defying adventures—them old boys could lie the blue out of the skies. He made a mental note to make sure to get some Sage for Bobby, make some time to just hang with him.

After a few more hours, the sun started to sink, and Dean pulled over, looking for some easily-defensible spot to rest in. Ended up against a short rock wall—it made a good windbreak, plus no one could sneak up on his back—not that he was really worried about that, basically just a force of habit. Slinging out his bedroll and duffle first, he then unrolled the hose containing salt, and jammed a few yew stakes engraved with protective symbols in the dirt before fixing the all-important fire—protection against the supernatural, and more importantly, against freezing to death. Mid-spring was not the best time to be about, but being a Menaletters mule meant sometime the hardships overbalanced the perks. Besides, those MoL Legacies were dicks and didn’t really give a shit what season it was—they were all cozy in their bases and their bunkers and their little chapter houses.

'There we go,' he thought, smiling in satisfaction as the flames rose high, throwing shadows that danced and wavered on the rock wall behind him. He pulled his down coat tighter, wrapped his hands in the thick blanket he had over his shoulders as well, and peered out into the steadily encroaching dark. This high in the mountain, travelers usually weren't troubled by anything more than ghosts, and due to the mass burning of the eighties, and fire-funerals becoming the norm after that, there weren't that many of them about. Besides, these were the Deadlands, nothing wanted to be here. _Just mad weres, and Men'o'Letters—out on the midnight moon._

Snorting out a laugh, Dean kicked back, let the fire do its work while he took a pull on his trusty flask before tucking it back inside his coat. 

"Shii—iiit—" He gasped aloud, wincing as it burned its way down his throat and hit his defenseless stomach. "Man. Shoulda got real booze instead of spelled soup, wow." 

JeezusThank the shit he was drinking now was the last of the hootch he'd bought from Ash. The man might be a genius, but not at brewing. 

Fire warming his outside, rotgut warming his inside and the distant, rhythmic, hooting of a night bird had his muscles finally relaxing, his legs sprawling. His head bobbed to a rhythm only he heard, a song there was a good possibility that only he remembered, him and a few old coots. 

_"Have you heard about the lonesome loser..._ he flipped the bracelet on his wrist round and round. Gotten it from a good-looking barmaid a few years ago. _"Beaten by the queen of hearts all the time..._

She'd taught him the right way to draw a beer, then taught him how to go down on a girl. She'd liked it well enough to give him the bracelet when Dad pulled up stakes. Yeah. And his first kiss came almost a year later, villages away. He shook his head. She must have been almost ten years older than him….

The only reason he'd kept the bracelet was the little skulls on it. Back then, his stupid ass had thought it was badass. Now he kept it on to remind himself that he could be stupid sometimes. And too sentimental. 

He pulled the coat's hood up over his head and dumped a pack of powdered meat/beans mix into the pot he'd used earlier. He couldn't afford Ever-Fresh food for every meal, and night-time meals weren't important enough to rate it. But water, and some dried meat-and-beans powder wasn't bad, and he still had those biscuits from his mid-day meal; they should stay edible for the next few days. 

=@=

When Dean rolled into Bedford, around five, the sky was beginning to darken. Shorter days, Dad had said, than what there used to be. Colder by far, he'd said, too. Dean didn't remember; as far as he knew, it had always been like this, gray skies and winds that snapped at your skin. 

Lucille grumbled at slowing, made a noise like a dying cow before shuddering to a stop. "Dramatic princess," Dean muttered. He yanked the keys out of the ignition, grabbed his ivory-handled little beauty from the glove box before hopping out, and tucking her in his waistband. Always safe meant never sorry.... 

"Hey, Mole! We got mail?" some kid yelled out, dirt in the creases of a bold grin, and a hand-carved staff over his shoulder. He was surrounded by a milling group of goats, all of them seemingly determined to go their own way. _Gotta love the settlements._

"Not a Manaletters," Dean shouted back. "Hunter. Running errands for the moles." Grinned at the kid and dumped the small bag of regular mail on the ground. "And bringing you your mail." 

"Whooo!" The kid shouted, and ran off, so Dean kicked a leg up against Lucille's side, leaned back to wait. It wasn't long before the goatherd was back, leading a grinning village head and a mob of villagers, dragging tables and baskets with them. 

Almost quicker than a blink, the small, bald square he'd stopped his truck in became the site of an impromptu celebration. Between mugs of a pretty good beer, and some really good little cakes, Dean passed the mail out, read news from Colorado, Kansas, and South Dakota. Told the mayor the MoLs were debating running a power source through the Deadlands in a few years, so taxes would probably go up, well before then. 

Personally, Dean thought these people deserved more than the mail and faint promises, and the couple of registered hunters who rode through, doing up wards and stuff a couple of times a year, considering the prime cargo the towns sending back to them. Cargo like finely scraped and prepared lambskins, a whole dozen. Bats' wings, dried chicken feet, preserved bones, some dyed red. There even a couple of raw gems. Bedford always came through. The MoLs relied on the taxes they received from places like Bedford. Without the villagers, the whole lot of them would starve in their libraries.

_But what the hey, life sucks and then you die._ And since he was still hoofing it, Dean passed out mail with a smile, collected taxes with same, and flirted, flirted, flirted, as he worked his way through tasty celebration food. Life could be good sometimes.

=@=

"Come on, lay em out," Dean crowed, laughing around a smoke clenched in his teeth, one of a pack he'd already won this evening. There was a steady fire roaring behind him in a huge, old hearth, warming the air nicely. A few gas lamps kept the shadows at bay, lighting the main floor, and the table he was playing on, in a warm golden glow.. 

The woman across from him grinned, the tip of her tongue caught in her teeth as she laid her cards out. "That's one jerrican you owe me." 

"Ah, sweetcheeks, can't I pay my debt some other way?" He grinned wider, eyebrows wiggling, loud, exaggerated. He threw his cards down and splayed his hands over his chest. "I mean, one little can of gasoline when you can have all this instead? I promise you I can warm you up better."

The goatherd kid next to her sighed, and dropped his cards, Ran his hands through toffee-colored hair. "Well, guess I'll go...do stuff." He dragged his eyes over Dean, stopping at his mouth, his chest. "Hope you, um. Nice meeting you."

Dean tilted his weight, balancing on the back legs of his chair and stared at the kid. Frowned a little at the kid's shift in temperament, his little goofy grin gone, his brilliant blue eyes not as brilliant as when they'd started. It was late, though, and a goatherd probably had to start the day early. "You okay, um, um…"

"Xander, and yeah. I'm fine."

He sighed again, sounding like he'd just lost his dog and his boots and his truck, but shook off whatever harshed him after a moment; he flipped Dean a little salute before taking off. The redhead swayed off towards the bar, and that left Dean and a lone player at the table, a big, dark-skinned man with a long, gray beard. He sighed, and gathered the cards. 

"That boy. Always got his heart on his sleeve. Poor shit. Coulda been a little nicer to him, y'know. He's a good kid, if a little stupid."

Dean's eyes went wide in surprise. "What—me? He was interested in _me? Why?"_

"I might have to rethink who's the stupid one, here." The other man's eyes went narrow. "Man of Letters or not, we don't hang with any kinda Before bullshit 'round here."

"Bullshit—oh, Jeez—you think it bothered me? No, not me, dude. I just prefer...a way curvier bedmate," Dean said and twinkled at the redhead who'd just plopped back down next to him, letting him refocus his attention on her and slide out from under the judgmental glare of the big guy across from him. 

"Whatya say, sweetness. You up for this? It's cool if you're not. The gas is there. Hell, I'll throw in a jerrican of fatfuel, too, made by the best renderers."

Red lit up like a search spell at Dean's offer of extra fuel on top of a promise of a better night than she usually had. She rose from her chair like a queen, ran her hands through a really gorgeous waterfall of red, making the hair spread over her shoulders in a way that had his fingers itching to dig in, get close and personal with it. He imagined her long, taut back, her ass like a peach in front of him and a handful of that thick, dark, silky stuff wrapped around his mitt like a rein, dick driving in like…

 _whoa—_

He'd best save the fantasies for later, especially since his fantasy was swaying her hot and sinful way to the stairs that led to the rooms over the common room.

"I'm the second room on the right, cowboy, the one with the green door." She winked then headed up, leaving him to admire the swing of her hips and the way the wide legged pants she wore caressed her legs.

"JeezDamn ." he muttered. 

The big guy was now stacking used mugs on a tray, head bent over the table. He frowned at Dean through a curtain of braids; the shine in his eyes speaking volumes of the degree of esteem he held Dean in...which apparently was not much. "She's a good girl. We don't like it when anyone hurts ours—any of ours." He scowled pointedly at Dean, who had had enough. 

"Look, I don't know what the fuck about me makes you think I'm that kind of guy because I'm _not_ that kind of guy. Who the hell came through here before to paint hunters with a shit brush?"

"I know guys like you. Pretty boys who think the world owes them something; give them a rank and they try and take it all. You're probably spelled up the ass so nothing can touch you."

"Okay, douchebag, hear this—I'm a JeezDamn hunter first and foremost. I'm the son of a Marine, and that might not mean anything to most folks these days, but it does to me. Hunt and protect, that's me. I don't give a shit what asshole hunter you come across, you're dealing with me now, Dean Winchester. John Winchester's son and Mary Winchester's baby boy. I never hurt an innocent in my life, and not gonna start now." 

He stood, kicking the chair so it skittered back into the wall. "And if you want, you can ask Red in the morning whether it was worth it. Guarantee you she'll tell you to mind your own business—and she'll be smiling when she says it."

=@=

She was waiting at the door when he loped up the stairs, so pissed he practically flew. But damn, she looked good, thick in all the right places, healthy, her hair shining in the lamplight and the tidal wave of anger he'd been surfing on faded just like that.

"Well, come on in," she smirked. "I didn't invite you up here to bake a cake."

"I like a woman who knows what she wants," he said and strolled through her door into a room that was definitely a woman's room. It made his chest go warm, and he felt...like he wanted to sleep there, even more than he wanted to fuck her. He shook his head. He was getting weird in his old age. 

It might have been odd to noticed since he came up here to fuck her, but the room was really was nice, with its sun-yellow walls, and light-blue drapes at the windows. It smelled of fresh air and the flowers she had in a vase on a dresser. Her bed was big enough for two, and covered with neat, clean, sky-blue linens. It'd been a while since he'd laid out on a bed so nice. His fingers itched to stroke the sheets, couldn't wait to lay back in that bed with the hottest chick he'd been with in way too long.

He glanced over as she was taking her clothes off, more like she was getting ready for an exam instead of stripping for a lover—not the kind of atmosphere he was hoping for. She caught his uncertain look and grinned. "Not seeing skin, cowboy. Keep up."

"I'm right with you, sweetheart." He shucked off his boots, dropping to the floor to pull his socks off because there was just no sexy way to get socks off, he thought. He yanked off his pants where he was sitting, then staggered way less than gracefully to his feet. Pulled off his shirts, both overshirt and undershirt at once. 

"Eager now, are ya?" he heard behind him. 

"Hell yeah," he said, dropping his shirts somewhere on the floor, followed by his thumbs going for the waistband of his underwear. She was there first, though, shoving them down, fisting his very interested dick without pausing. 

"Nice."

He turned around, pushing her arms apart and spreading his hands wide over her hips. "Oh, hell yeah, definitely," he said, squeezing soft, smooth skin soft and giving her a grin that had her cheeks pinking up. He smirked, winked, before bending down to kiss her, but she cut him off. 

"Let's get on the bed. I'm not trying to break my neck fulfilling some fantasy of yours," she said. Dean blinked at her. She was ruthlessly practical, this one. He kinda liked it.

Once on the bed, she pushed him down until he settled in the vee of her legs, mouthing softly at her curls, shoving his hands under her peach of an ass, gripping it to spread her wider. She seemed to like it—she hadn't punched him in the head yet, so he worked his tongue slowly up the center of her, licking a meandering stripe up her pussy until he latched onto her clit. She shivered and moaned, thrusting up into his mouth, cursing as he went to work. He sucked and licked her like she was candy, working his fingers in and out, slow, than fast, until they were dripping wet, and she was kicking her heels into his back. He licked, and rubbed his chin into her, inhaling between breaths for air because she smelled good—hot, wet and sexy. His dick throbbed and twitched with each moan he wrung out of her and it was agonizing, and also, the hottest thing ever. He pulled back, and shoved all his fingers into her, using his thumb to rub against the slippery bud of her clit.

"Come on, baby," he murmured. "You gonna come? You need a little push?" he thrust his fingers in as far as he could and latched onto her clit again, tongued her, sucked, and grazed her with his teeth, and she grabbed handfuls of his hair and screamed, cursing him, the world, herself, and how damn good it was.

When her ass hit the bed again, Dean scrabbled all over her bedstand. Hadn't he tossed a lambskin on it? After a few frustrating seconds of not finding it, he said, "Hey, ah...do you mind? I've got," he gestured to his dick, "spell that--"

She parted thick curls with her fingers and showed him the feminine version of his own tattoo, at the top of her mound. "We're double safe," was all she said. She didn't owe him a damn explanation for anything. He grinned and blew her a kiss since she didn't want a real one, and lifted her hips up, pushed inside her in one long thrust. He ground his dick into her—she'd been so fucking hot that he wasn't going to last much at all. Muttering apologies, he drove in, over and over, going for his own satisfaction because he was pretty sure she'd hit her max,,,he opened his eyes and saw her straining right along with him. Well, good, because this was it—he flexed, and howled, and came like an electric current was blowing through him right into her.

He hit his peak, and kept on fucking her on the downward crest, and she smiled through his whole orgasm. "Cowboy," she murmured appreciatively when he dropped down beside her. 

Come morning, he wasn't surprised to see she was gone. She'd been nice enough to let him sleep in her bed, but everyone had work to do, and no one had time to lounge around. He sighed, heaved himself out of bed and searched for his clothes, followed directions to the bathroom and was out of her hair in under an hour. Didn't take much more than that to have the village in his rearview, Lucille grumbling contentedly as they headed out to the road again.

"Our natural element, milady. We weren't made to lounge about in someone's bed all day, we were meant to be out here, hunting things, helping people." He flipped a cassette out of the box, and slid it home, punched a button, relaxed into [Let It Roll](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=st80MOVoi4M) as he drove them down the road.

"Yeah, we're not homebodies, not us, girl." He patted her dash and never once looked back.

  
phoenix1966


	3. Chapter 3

**Sam  
2005**

"Fuck!" Sam jumped straight up in the air, up and over the werewolf diving for him. Angling downwards too hard to be able to compensate, the werewolf plowed snout-first right into the dirt. It tried to roll over and grab Sam's leg, but only managed to scratch it—not fun, considering getting scratched by a werewolf claw felt about the same as getting swiped by a sharp-honed machete. Silver bullets slammed into it, killing it instantly and bringing the hunt to an end. Sam fell back in the grass, panting for breath and watching the thing that almost killed him slowly morph into a man, emaciated, gray skin, with its mouth still drawn up a snarl, showing off broken and rotted teeth. Fucking loco were had been living up in the deadest parts of the Deadlands, and nothing survived there for long.

"Get up and dig a pit to burn that thing in," Shit-For-Brains snapped, like Sam didn't know the drill by this time. Fuck him. Sam stopped to rip a strip off the bottom of his shirt, pissed off because he'd liked this one. He dropped on his butt, wadded up a piece of fabric, pressed it against the slash and used the thinner strip left to tie it down.

Oh well. He had another couple of t-shirts in the truck— the last hunters' camp they'd hooked up with, Shit let him trick for new clothes.

Sam checked the knot on the makeshift bandage again, then jumped to his feet, dragged the shovel off the back of the truck and started in to digging. He kept an eye on Shit, who was kneeling at the dead were's side, cutting its ear off to shove into a spelled pouch. It'd stay bloody fresh as long as it was in the pouch. Sam knew it would; that pouch was an expensive piece of work. It had sure cost him, what with what the sorcerer had demanded in payment. Sam still had nights where he woke up swallowing whimpers and praying for the nightmare to evaporate fast. Wished it was Shit-For-Brains who'd had to do what Sam did for it. He'd gotten his damn magic pouch and all Sam got out of it was nightmares—oh, not to forget, a pack of beef jerky as well. Fuck the both of them.

He hadn't had to do as much work of that sort lately. No surprise—he was getting old. He had to be...he thought hard as he flung dirt over his shoulder. Twenty...two? He'd been around four or so when the humans had killed Seli-enkitri-Dor, or as little pup-him called her, Seli-Ma.

Hunh, he thought, his steady _dig-toss_ move slowing down. It'd been some time since he'd thought of her in her full pack name. He was, and had always been, just plain old 'Sam' what with being a part-human freak and outlawed by all packs. Being packless meant not rating a real name. For some crazy reason she'd never shared, Seli-enkitri-Dor had chosen him over her pack, taking him away instead of snapping his neck when he was born. 

"Fuck!" A clod of dirt hit him in the temple—he'd daydreaming too long. Growling under his breath, he threw dirt harder, dug deeper, the work and the anger warming him like what was left of his long sleeved t-shirt didn't. Fucking humans, they thought ‘walkers and shifters and weres weren't affected by the cold...idiots. Same fuckers that would leave a shifter-kid tied outdoors in the snow would cry fucking tears for a dog treated the same way. He spit into the hole, hauled himself out of it and growled, "Done."

Shit-For-Brains came over and looked—like Sam didn't know how to dig a damn hole—then nodded. "Put him in there." 

Sam dragged the body over and tossed it in. Shit and the other human doused it with fatfuel and lit it, wisely not letting Sam have any means of starting a fire because if they did, he'd drench them both in fatfuel and burn them alive. Or maybe just bite open their throats. Or tear out their shriveled, little, black hearts. Or just run the fuck away, as fast and as far as he could get. Jeez, he dreamed of it often, imagining if he could run, how fast and how far he would go. He'd run right across the Deadlands; those jerks probably wouldn't follow him there. 

Of course, now that he was getting old, who knew, maybe instead of selling him on to some other bastards, they'd just dump him somewhere. Shit's buddy, Fuckface, was screwing him less and less. JeezusThank. It was nice to imagine freedom anyway, though more than likely, they'd put a bullet in his head and burn him in his own hole in the dirt.

Sam jumped up in the back of the truck when Shit whistled, automatically holding out his hands and tilting his head up for Shit to link the cuffs on his wrists together and then to snap a chain to his collar. He scuttled back towards the rear of the truck bed and sent up his usual prayer to whatever that they wouldn't hit something that would send him flying over the side of the truck and end up snapping his neck. Dumb fucks. He tapped his fingers together, counting one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four-five, until he was able to breathe evenly again.

They chugged along pretty steadily, making good time towards the village Shit-For-Brains had currently staked out as home base. There was nothing on the road, JeezusThank. Not breaking his neck tonight, anyway. Sam sighed, stretched his legs out and, "Oh, right," he grunted. Yanked the blood-soaked fabric wrapped around his calf off and tossed it over the side. The slash had closed well; the edges knitting together nicely, the skin was faintly pink, but not hot, so lucky him, he wasn't going to have to burn through a healing fever. Having polluted blood hadn't screwed his skinwalker genes up enough to keep him from fast healing. He eased back so his head was resting against the glass and tried to ignore Fuckface—Floyd—thumping on the glass and grunting like a pig. Jesus. 

He winced a bit when the rising sun caught the silver in the cuffs and flared. The amount of silver in them wasn't enough to keep him in outright pain—just a low-level, constant, irritating _buzz_ that he'd learned to ignore, even though it dulled everything around him, and in him. The collar around his neck was made from strips of leather and silver links pieced together, and it kept him feeling on the edge of sick. He was pretty sure it had something to do with keeping him from shifting—that and whatever Shit had put between his shoulder blades. On good days, it was a low-level burn; on bad days, it felt like something alive and malignant was crawling around under his skin. 

Sometimes he wished he could forget getting that thing on his back, but something fucked up about ‘walkers made them remember too much, especially shit he'd like to forget. Like remembering the time he'd been penned up with another skinwalker for a brief time, a wrinkly old coot who kind of helped out by sharing the misery. Well, 'sharing' might be too strong a word—when they'd first met, he was sure the guy was going to kill him for being half-blood. Eventually the guy realized that he and Sam both weren't worth shit to the humans, and for lack of any other contact, the old guy eventually got to tolerate Sam. 

Sam was oddly affected when the guy had frozen to death one SpringDay night. Still gave him a twinge when he thought about it. Guess the guy had ended up being a friend of sorts. 

He'd never shared even a syllable of his real name to Sam, though, not even when he was shaking to death from the cold. Good old Ugly...went out still thinking Sam was a packless piece of shit, regardless of the torture they'd shared. 

Sam shook his head. He needed to stop thinking about what had been. _Now_ was what was important and it looked like Fuckface was gonna ignore how old he was and ride his ass tonight. Damn it. 

=@= 

"I think it's about time to get rid of this thing, Sherm. It's getting to be more of a problem than a asset."

Sam rolled his eyes. _An_ asset. Idiot. Tiny-dicked, micro-brained fuck. He leaned against the truck's wheel and ignored the conversation going on practically over his head. 

"I mean, it's fucking huge, and eats a ton, and it looks too much like a...a…"

Shit-For-Brains spit, almost catching Sam's foot. Sam raised his eyes and snarled at him, but wasn't dumb enough to move. "A grown man? Jeezus, you're a pervert, Floyd, an honest-ta-Jeez sick motherfucker. At least you're not diddling real kids." 

Shit kicked Sam in the side, an idle kind of move, more habit than intent. "Could make a case for bestiality, I bet."

"Shut up, you fucking jerk-off." Floyd's face was stained a deep red, and his jowls shook with fury. "Why the hell you gotta say that kind of stuff, Sherman? It's not true, none of it. I wouldn't even touch it if it didn't—it eggs me on. It wants it. You can see that, right? It's what they do, you know I'm right."

"First off, Floyd," Shit-For-Brains said, " _He_ wouldn't suck your dick out of his own will for a footlocker full of kush and fifteen steak dinners. Second, pretend all you want by calling him _it;_ this ‘walker's a boy, male, a he, seeing as his junk is five times the size of yours. He'd still be an ass virgin if I didn't need the money, no matter how much you ride it."

Sam rolled over, his face to the dirt so they couldn't see him struggling not to laugh. Shit was an asshole and Sam would kill him in a minute if he could, but he was kind of funny some times.

"But yeah, you got a point," Shit said and Sam froze. Suddenly Shit was not so funny. "He is getting expensive for us, but maybe not so much for someone holed up in one place, needing someone to dig ditches and shit...plus he's definitely not a skinny, pretty little thing that other sick shits can stick their dicks in and pretend he's a girl. Not anymore." He snorted. "Not a girl at all." 

Sam felt...he wasn't sure if he should feel ashamed, or threatened or if the weird tone in Shit's voice was a side-ways kind of almost admiration. Sam was pretty sure he wasn't that big. Those two just had dicks that were afterthoughts, that's all. Jeez, he hoped it wasn't envy. In his experience, if humans coveted something, they'd try to own it or to destroy it, and he'd seen monsters with their genitals whacked clean off before. 

"Get in the truck." Sherman kicked him in the leg. "Hop, hop."

"Master," Sam growled, and Shit snorted. Sam slunk up into the truck bed, flashing his teeth at Floyd as he did. He could smell Fuckface's fear, hear his heart speed up. What an asshole—and then Fuck whacked him with the JeezDamn baton. The little silver knobs all over it hit him like stepping into a wolfsbane shower. Sam whuffed in pain, and rolled towards the back of the truck. He deserved that—it'd been a stupid move on his part. Now he'd probably get his ass kicked unless….

"Leave him, Floyd. Heading out to that hunter bar and we're going to need him in good shape. Let them take care of punishing him." 

Floyd grinned at Sam. "Lucky you, there'll be plenty who won't care that you're old and ugly, just that you're cheap and they can do—" he drew in a deep breath and let it out in satisfaction, "—anything."

Sam closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to see their faces, and they wouldn't be able to see the desperation he felt. 

=@=

They pulled into the lot behind the hunter's bar around midnight, and Sam expected to wait in the truck, but he was pulled inside. Shit took his cuffs and collar off, and threw them inside the truck. He handed Sam a baggy, long-sleeved shirt he'd gotten from somewhere. It was new to Sam. It was clean, and smelled okay, so he ripped off the tee he had on and shrugged into the shirt. He rolled up the sleeves and tied the shirt tails together at the waist, letting it gap a bit to show smooth skin. Shit handed him a pair of sandals, which Sam was glad of. His boots had finally given out and he hadn't had a chance to make enough to buy new ones—he had his sneakers left, but they were about to give up the ghost too….

Of course, Shit would want something for this generosity. What, and why, Sam would no doubt find out after normal business hours. 

He was pushed through the doors as soon as he had the shoes on his feet. Tripping over the threshold, he staggered into the middle of the place. Conversation stuttered a bit when it was obvious what he was there for. A few people studied him; he wasn't surprised if a few guessed he was a ‘walker—it was a hunters' bar. What did surprise him was not all of them were scowling at him, instead, it seemed some were scowling at Shit-For-Brains and Fuckface. 

A good-looking, middle-aged woman came from around the counter, slowly wiping her hands on a towel while looking them all up and down. She cocked her head, and said,"No offense, but we're don't allow that in here." Pretty plain what she meant, when she gestured at Sam's bare legs—he was wearing a pair of denims cut off at practically the crotch. He got it, he didn't want to parade around in the damn things either, but it was a quick, silent way of letting others know he was for sale. 

"You'll have to run that business outside. You understand that, hon?" and she was looking straight at him, like he had some damn say in it. Sam actually felt surprise, and a little warmth. She was a hunter no doubt, but she was giving him some small measure of respect. Shit poked him hard in the back, and Sam glanced back at him—what the hell did he want him to say? He took a chance and nodded. "Sure, yes, ma'am, no—no problem." 

She gave him a side-eye; Sam tried to clear his throat unobtrusively—it'd been a while since he spoke in more than one word sentences. Guess he'd sounded kind of off to her. He ducked his head and quickly walked back outside, Shit following. He glanced back and she was still looking, frowning...but again, the frown didn't seem to be aimed at him, but at Shit. What the hell was up with these rubes?

Once outside, Shit grabbed a fistful of Sam's hair and dragged him over to the truck. Sam sighed when he bent him over the tail-gate, and waited. Shit took a quill, poked himself with a muttered curse, and traced a blood sigil over the tat on the back of Sam's neck—what he did every time they put down for longer than an hour. Spit a quick, dirty spell, that combined with the bloody squiggle on the tattoo, would make his insides turn to liquid if he ran. Shit had told him often enough, and Sam had picked up enough Latin in his life to know, yeah, that's exactly what the spell promised. Then, as if all that wasn't enough, Shit snapped a thin silver chain bolted to the truck bed through the clip on his collar. Fucking Shit-For-Brains. Always with the show. Some freak-humans just got off on him being chained down, lock spell or not.

"I'll send some friends out to you shortly," he said, wiping his fingers and putting the quill away. He flat-out laughed when Sam snarled at him. "Boy, I bet you wished you could gut me, don't you? Poor little toothless puppy." He yanked on the chain, and then jerked Sam around and swatted his ass. "Get in."

Sam pulled himself up on the tailgate, his gut swirling, the landscape around him doing loops and rolls. He fought down the nausea as the spell settled in. No need to respond to the asshole—Shit-For -Brains would have to be blind not to see the affirmative answer in his eyes.

Shit laughed again, and said, "Boy, if you only knew," before walking off. 

Sam stared after him, puzzled for a half second before blowing it off. _Whatever._

He'd just settled on the thin blanket that turned the truck bed into his work area, when a stranger walked up and banged on the tailgate. 

"Your boss said it was open for business," and then snickered at just how funny he thought was. Sam rolled his eyes. Great. Desperate, lonely, fucking troll, _and_ he thought he was funny. Somehow, the funny ones were always the meanest. 

=@=

Out of all the guys in the bar, there were only three that came out to use him. Sherman had said, he was too much of a _he_ now to attract anyone who wasn't into men as a matter of course. Too old to attract perverts, too big to attract anyone who wasn't into humiliating someone his size, like it made them big men to beat the shit out of a captive 'walker. Someone who couldn't fight back at risk of their lives at most, losing their junk at the least. He'd been lucky tonight that he only got one of those 'beat you 'cause it's fun' pricks. He tongued his split lip, and winced as the skin around his abused eye socket set into knitting itself back. He fucking hated having his skin heal—felt like an army of hyperactive ants going crazy under the skin. It was more annoying than painful, nothing as painful as having bone grow back together but...not his favorite thing, no. His throat was raw—that last fucker had been big, and seemed determined to stick his dick down Sam's throat so far it came out his ass. He'd spit up blood after the guy finally came, had been yay close to throwing up everything he'd ever eaten, ever. 

Sam rubbed his healing eye socket, and sighed deeply. He guessed the douchebag had been motivated to beat him because he hadn't quite managed to choke him to death. Sam felt sick—and a little stupid for feeling sick—knowing that Shit had known this was going to happen, he had to have. Sam knew it was no coincidence the fucker had been the last john of the night. Fuck, he must have paid Shit good for this. Sam's skin crawled and tingled and felt like ants eating him from the inside out...

The moon climbed higher and higher in the sky; he watched it from where he was gingerly perched on the tailgate, forcing himself to breathe normally. He idly wished Shit would come out with a beer for him to chase the taste out of his mouth, numb some of the sting. It happened sometimes, usually when they did well enough, like tonight. SFB had scored a good bit of ammo, plus pure sugar, and some of the MoL script that had started passing around lately and folks had begun to honor. 

Time passed, the sky inching more towards blue than black. After waiting what he considered to be a reasonable amount of time, Sam dressed himself—though just putting the stupid shorts back on just in case, and buttoning up the shirt.

Eventually the sky was light enough he could make out the black line of the mountain tops; he was certain no one was coming back out to the truck, which meant thank Jeezus, he was done working for the night. He rolled up the still damp blanket, wrinkling his nose at the smell, hissing and cursing himself for forgetting the bone in his pinky was still at work healing—shifting back into place. Humans. Fucking worse than animals.

He found a dry section of his blanket and wrapped it around what clothes he had to make a pillow for his ass, and plopped back down on the tailgate. Prayed for an hour of JeezDamn peace, thank you very much. 

Elbows planted on his knees, he concentrated on some distant, invisible, and totally fantastical good place because he was a fucking monster and the only good place he'd ever see would be the endless grey deserts of Purgatory. That's what he'd been told, over and over….not much of a soul, not enough to have hope of redemption, anyway. 

He clasped his hands together, taking some slight comfort from the warmth of his palms meeting, refusing to even think about how much better it would be if someone who cared was touching him instead, wanting him to be soothed.

He stared into nothing and seriously contemplated running off anyway; he'd end up shitting his organs out into the dirt, but JeezDamn it, at least he'd be free under those eternal grey, Purgatory skies—Sam's thoughts screeched to a halt. 

He inhaled, open-mouthed to let scent molecules dance over his tongue, the inside of his cheeks. Whoever was coming up on him smelled like a decent soap, and shave powder, along with a whiff of leather, tobacco, honey, and smoked meat, besides the usual odor of being a day or three past their last good wash-up. Sam smiled to himself, his nostrils flaring. Whoever this was, they were a delicious combination of smells. That made it easier to work, at least. 

Sam swung around to get himself into position and froze. _Holy fuck._ This asshole not only smelled good, he was surprisingly good-looking too; in fact, the guy was almost pretty. Sam was damn sure he'd never had a human this hot and this clean want his services. He looked fit, too: healthy, clear, green eyes, and fairly clean skin dusted with red-brown freckles—hunh. _Definitely_ fucking pretty. Thick brown hair was brushed back from a smooth, unblemished forehead. There were even some scattered sun-streaks in the brown; same color Seli-ma's had been. 

He was fine as hell, and that was nice...but not important. 

"Lookin' f'me?" he smirked, and spread his legs more, cocking one so that the cleft of his ass was exposed—just like he'd practiced.

The guy reared back like he was startled. Probably hadn't expected someone as big as Sam was. Well, fuck the asshole, then. "Master explained how this goes?" Sam asked—a little prod to get things started. The sooner they got to it, the sooner it'd be over.

Pretty stepped closer, and then jerked back. "What the hell?" He shook his head, staring at Sam before breaking out in a huge scowl.

Sam felt earth-shaking, blood-boiling, agonizing rage bubble up inside. He tightened his mouth and locked down every muscle and waited it out. If he so much as _twitched_ at this moment, he'd be howling in agony, his body trying to shift and not being able to. His teeth scraped along his tongue and the inside of his cheeks as they tried to drop, and that little pain, along with the blood flooding his mouth, brought him back to reality. He glanced at the human from under lowered eyelashes. He was pretty sure that it didn't see his struggle to not shift. It felt like he'd fought the shift for long minutes, but he knew it'd been closer to seconds—not anywhere near long enough for a human to notice. Unless maybe this guy was a mole instead of a hunter, a real possibility seeing how clean and well-fed he looked. Those MoL shits were smart and observant and knew their freaks like no hunter could hope to. Sam blinked, and the guy jumped _again,_ this time nearly landing on his ass, he backed up so fast. 

"Skinwalker, fuck—" the guy gasped, and the expression on his face, like Sam had just pissed himself, made him feel a way he hadn't felt for years: _humiliated._

Given half a minute's freedom, he'd eat his way right through the motherfucker's chest.

  
phoenix1966


	4. Chapter 4

Phoenix1966

 **Dean**  
There was a tall kid sitting in the back of a grungy, rust-eaten Chevy truck. He seemed focused on the far hillside, though Dean guessed by the kid's expression he wasn't really seeing what was in front of him. His bony elbows were planted squarely on knobby knees, his legs were thin and about a mile long. Dean squinted—they were almost pretty for a boy's. But those wide shoulders were anything but pretty—thin too, yeah, but there was muscle there; they looked big even curled inwards and hunched forward like he was trying to shrink inside himself. Dark-brown bangs hung rough and shaggy around his narrow face. His posture radiated tension, but somehow, also, sadness. Or maybe...hopelessness? 

Anyfuck, something about the poor bastard set off Dean's damn inconvenient sense of "need-to-help", that and his equally developed sense of sheer damn nosiness got him wanting to take a closer look. 

Dean drew up short—like some weird alchemy, the boy in the truck went from _sad kid_ to something borderline dangerous before changing again, tense muscle suddenly going from knotted rope to silk. He twisted, hiking farther up the truck bed and going back on his elbows, knees going wide enough to see right up the leg of the raggedy cut-offs he was wearing. That blank look went crooked before settling into a smirk. "Lookin' for me?" he said, his voice low and gravely, but not fooling Dean for a second. He was too young to be spreading himself like that, but the look in his eyes...made Dean feel like _he_ was the kid, instead of that deadly boy in the truck. 

Dean shook his head. Why was he spazzing over this kid? Not like he hadn't come across working boys before in places like these—despite how these backwoods, homegrown hunters acted like touching any dick 'sides their own was a worse crime than eating long pig. Usually though, working boys were girly-pretty, and mostly underage. On second look, this one was damn pretty and yeah, young, but not young enough to pass for a girl anymore, not with that jawline, not with those shoulders.

Those eyes….

That damned curiosity of his made Dean step even closer. While he'd never taken advantage of any working boys—never had been into guys like that—almost everyone had tried it out with a buddy at least once, during desperate times, like. Like when the only choice was between your hand or some other guy's and you were sick to fuckin' death of your own. So, not into guys, but then what was it about this one that had him creepin' up closer? 

"Master explain how this goes?" the kid asked, his voice gone to a breathy growl now—for some reason, it made Dean feel odd, like he needed a deeper breath himself. 

And then, the kid's words caught up to him and Dean turned his full focus on him. _Master?_

Dean was right up on the tailgate now, close enough to touch, ready to reach out but jerked back in surprise—no, _shock—_ because what the hell? 

The collar was the first thing he saw, with its silver links, then the kid turned his head and the hair kissing the nape of his neck parted, revealing what looked like a tat scrawled there by some talent-less amateur. That blood had been traced over it was nearly hidden by twisting, sweat-damp curls. That sent his radar pinging—the whole thing looked like some fucking "stay-put" spell. If it was, Dean was damn sure it was an illegal one, what with the way the kid's skin was bubbling up around it. And, adding the _fuck_ to the _what the,_ the kid whipping his head around at Dean's hiss revealed his damn eyes—they flashed gold. Dean couldn't help but take an instinctive step back. "Skinwalker—fuck!" Why the fuck would a 'walker want something poisonous like that on them? 

The sheer hatred in that flash of pretty eyes had him stumbling back, almost falling on his ass. Weird on top of weird—the skinwalker kind of...writhed for a second, before settling again. Struggling not to shift? Yeah, no doubt. Probably had it drummed into him since puphood, no shifting in front of humans. Most shifters and weres taught their pups that.

It was quiet as the grave after Dean's outburst, and after a few minutes of mutual staring, the skinwalker shuddered from head to toe, and his whole face crinkled like he smelled something rotten, a definite possibility given how long ago Dean's last bath was. 

"Yer _hunter."_ When the 'walker spoke, Dean picked up just how rough his voice was, like talking wasn't something he did much. Also a possibility, since 'walkers were a 'notoriously reticent breed', to quote Uncle Bobby. "But…" the 'walker sniffed quickly, like maybe Dean wouldn't notice, "not from around here." He nodded once, sharply, and that sent the long, obviously silver chain attached to his collar to chiming and what the fucking _hell--?_

"No, for sure not from around here. Why in th'fuck are you tied down?" Dean was furious. He was pretty sure what was going on here. Shit like this had been outlawed since...he actually had to stop and think about the damn year for a moment. 1995? Yeah, going on about ten years now. "Do you want that collar on? I mean, is this some kind of game, or—um, a thing?"

The skinwalker looked at him like he was stupid as shit. "Why t’fuck would I _want_ silver on? Master did it," he sneered. 

Dean cocked his head and sized this fucker up. Well, someone might think they owned him, but they sure hadn't tamed this kid any. Good for him. Dean smothered a laugh. Obviously, he must not have been chained long. Well, good. Dean was about to put an end to this farce. Fucking backwoods sonofabitches. How did the kid even get his ass in this kinda situation?.

The kid in question snorted. "Was him, right? Sent you out here, didn't he? Freebie from one hunter to 'nother." The kid's mouth twisted up in a nasty smirk, full of contempt—and self-loathing.

When this was over, Dean was going to kick the shit out of whichever of these hillbilly motherfuckers was masquerading as a hunter and holding this kid against his will. "There’s no such thing as owning you 'cause it’s against the damn law. Jeezus, I see this shit over and over again out here where news is slow and seldom and I'm fucking sick of it. It's _against the law_ to hold anyone, human or monster, as any kind of slave." 

"Mother-fuckin' liar." The 'walker growled, bared his teeth at him, suddenly too-sharp, too-long, animal-like teeth in a pretty face. "Fucking hunters killed Seli-ma, sold me; I been sold over and over and over 'til I landed with Shit—" 

His whole body shuddering with a deep inhale, the 'walker stopped. His teeth eased back to human-looking. Dean could see sweat beaded at his hairline and chin. He looked sick, his skin gone a greasy gray—there was nothing of the aggressive and seductive brat Dean had stumbled over. 

The kid shook his head, said, "Been with this fucker since I'm thirteen, fourteen, 'bout."

That meant he'd been sold around for a longer time than Dean wanted to think about...meant his current owner knew it was illegal to hold him. Jeezus. This had to be one tough kid, to hold onto himself like this. "Man, how old are you?"

"Twenty-one," the 'walker shrugged. "Twenty-two…" he ended on a cough, his voice going dry, beginning to give out with use. "Lost track, but...probably close to that, at least. And no, can't change myself to look younger, fuckin pervert." 

"No!" Dean threw his hands up, yelling, "Fuck no, that's disgusting, you little shit. Jeez. That's not—anyway, I can tell by your eyes you're a 'walker, not a shifter. Kind of an asshole, but not crazy. Shifters, man." Dean shook his head. "They're fifty-fifty. Never know when you're gonna run against one short a full deck. Skinwalkers…" He shrugged. "My dad never had much bad to say against them."

"Yeah, ain't that nice, thanks for the fuckin' arcanology lesson, _asshole._ Oh, Jeezus. Here comes Shit-For-Brains."

Dean caught a guy heading for them, a shit attitude clear in the way he walked. The kid rolled his eyes and muttered, "My master. Shit-For-Brains."

Dean couldn't help but laugh a little. The kid was hardcore—he was so through with everyone's shit. Had to admire that in someone chained to a piece of shit like the guy coming around the front of the truck. Dean snorted. Dude looked like a caricature of a hunter. Everything about him was just a beat off—muscle going to fat trapped in a too-tight plaid shirt, greasy billed-cap pulled low over his eyes, chins in serious need of a shave, and a body in need of a shower. Showers. Damn.

Shit-for-Brains’ face was wreathed in a wide, tooth-baring, fake-ass grin as he came to a stop against the truck. He leaned against it, looking Dean up and down before drawling, "Why’re you talking to my monster, boy? Don't you know that's kinda rude, without talkin' to me first?" He drew a handmade cigarette from behind his ear and popped it between his lips. Went for a lighter in his pocket and made a big show of revealing he was heated.

Dean snorted. He reached behind himself and adjusted his own gun just as ostentatiously, the shine on the chrome-plated, ivory handled Colt winking prettily in the sunlight. Baby always was a showoff.

Dean jerked his chin in the kid's direction. "You know this shit here is against the law?"

Shit-for-Brains hawked, the sound repulsive enough to make Dean wince, and to draw a hiss of disgust from the kid. "Maybe the fuck in Kansas, or 'Rado it is, but not out here in the Real, cowboy." He made another disgusting sound and spit a wad of brown-tinted phlegm near the toe of Dean's boot. It took everything Dean had not to flinch away from the fucker.

"How do you know I'm not an inspector, just looking for shit like this?" Dean snapped, swallowed back the 'fuckin' dumbass.' he wanted to add.

"Are you?" the man asked, rolling the cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other. He looked Dean up and down, then slid his gaze over to the kid and sneered, like he knew something private and shameful about Dean, and winked. " Or you looking for a free taste? I don’t mind. Much."

Dean inhaled, deep and slow. "Well, now, not only am I definitely a registered, legal, Hunter First Class and inspector," he said, and pulled out his credentials with a great sense of satisfaction. "I'm also a _recovery_ agent. You know what that means, right? Even out here you fucks have to know." He lifted the collar of his jacket, and flashed the star of the Men of Letters.

"Fuck." Shit-For-Brains went the color of old cheese. His hand-rolled slipped through loose fingers to the ground. 

"Yep. Fuck indeed. Gimme his key and I'll call it good— I got business with the Old Men in Kansas and he's coming with me right the fuck now." Dean stepped forward with his hand out and his eye on the guy's gun. His other hand inched behind his back, going towards his own. 

"What about the cost of my goods—"

 _"Goods?_ Your illegal ass is gonna bitch about _payback?_ Are you outta your JeezDamn mind?"

Even over his shouting, Dean could hear supposedly stealthy footsteps; a couple of guys coming up behind him, both heavy-footed as damn mooses. 

Up in the truck bed, he could see the 'walker's eyes go wide and round—fear, but also a little amused? "Oh shit, hope you don't die," the kid murmured, and dived under a pile of blankets. _Brat,_ Dean thought.

"Me, outta _my_ mind? Nah," Shit drawled, "I'm not the one thinks these freaks got rights. I'm just gonna put your corpse in the hillside and go on with my life." 

Overconfident motherfucker. Just the type of asshole Dean liked fucking with.

The guys behind him gave up being stealthy, and rushed him—yelling for all they were worth, like that was supposed to unsettle him. Dean twisted, grabbed one of the jerks by his arm and twisted again—the guy let out a high-pitched shriek that cut off quick when Dean slammed a fist into his ribs, then used the momentum to swing him face first into the truck. Before the crunch of the guy’s nose collapsing registered, he dropped the asshole, whirled around with Baby drawn. Faintly he heard the other dirtbag let out a surprised, "Fuck!" before tearing off in the opposite direction—this had obviously not gone the way they'd planned. Dean snapped a shot off at Shit when he caught his movement—aided by the 'walker yelling out, "Hey!

Shit-For-Brains dropped with a bullet hole in his leg, his ancient six-shooter hitting the ground. Before Shit could pull himself together to grab it, it went skittering under the truck.

When he hit the ground, he let out a scream—the guy with the broken nose yelled, " Sherman!" and lurched upright, intending to head for his partner. He made it as far as hands and knees, giving Dean the opportunity to crack him over the head with his gun—so he did. Hard.

He smiled at the kid, who was peeking over the edge of the truck. " Don't like wasting bullets."

Stepping over the unconscious guy, Dean stared down at the man who'd thought he was the skinwalker's master. He wasn't handling being shot very well, not for a hunter. He was bleeding and moaning on the ground, making a ton of noise, so Dean kicked him in the knee, which just made the guy moan louder. "Oh for fuck's sake, you’ll live. Pretty sure." Dean nudged the guy who was out, to make sure he was still breathing. "If this one wakes up in time to get you back inside, that is."

"Someone 's going to come out and look, you fucker, and then you're dog's meat," Sherman groaned, trying to keep his voice from shaking with pain.

Dean laughed out loud. "Ellen is not sending anyone out here to look at shit; besides, she’s always been a friend to Winchesters. Give me the key."

Sherman grabbed his thigh and moaned, " Fuck you, whoever the fuck you are." 

" Okay, I'm tired of talking anyway." Dean shrugged, and snapped a kick at the guy’s chin. Shit—Sherman—whatever his name was, went out like a light, head rolling to the side, arms flopping loose. 

"I think you broke his neck," the kid said. 

"Yeah, don't sound so hopeful, he's fine. Ish." Dean leaned over and frisked the asshole's pockets, dug out a ring of keys out and headed over to the truck. "I won," he said, waving the keys. The kid just snorted. 

"Lift," Dean said, swallowing for some reason when the kid tipped his head back so Dean could undo the collar, dark curls falling away to expose a ridiculously long neck. He held his hands out without being asked, slim, elegant hands with long fingers, that trembled some when Dean unlocked the cuffs around his wrists. Big hands. Big feet, too, Dean noted. He'd bet anything this kid wasn't done growing yet. Dean dropped his hands when he noticed he was still holding on to the kid. He was really warm…a lot of supers ran warmer than humans. Felt good against his chilly fingers.

The kid jerked away when the chain fell, flung the handcuffs away hard when they opened. He let out a weird noise, cross between a cough and a laugh, clambered to his feet—then froze. 

"Come on, dude," Dean said, "we gotta get a move on. Sometimes these douches pack up to 'avenge' their own," he said, rolling his eyes. "I'm not sure where that other asshole went, but to be on the safe—"

 _"Can't."_ The kid turned his head, glaring at Dean sideways and sweating like he'd run a race. "Can't, damn it. I'll die if I try and leave." He jerked a thumb towards the back of his neck, breathing going fast and shallow. He swallowed again—so hard Dean heard him. Dean peered at him before finally putting two and two together. 

"Oh hell, I'm not fucking leaving you here—or letting that sadistic piece of shit tattooed on your neck kill you. C'mere." He grabbed the kid's arm and jerked him into place. "Bend. Your neck, bend it," he snapped when the kid didn't move fast enough for him. 

"Disgusting sonofabitch," Dean growled on looking at the nasty thing on the kid's neck again. Besides the tattoo, there were a trio of asymmetrical lumps, he could feel them move slightly under his thumb. They were each topped with a tiny brand—definitely something like lock-in spells combined with something that he was not about to fuck with. But the tat—he could take care of that. That fucking hunter-wanna-be had a sadistic streak in him a mile wide, to do something so foul to a thinking, feeling being. He smoothed the kid's hair out of the way, his brain taking a stupid moment to wonder at how soft and clean it felt—he'd figured it'd be tangled and dirty, the way the kid had had to live. 

He pulled a small, silver knife out of his pocket, some salt, and some powdered amber. "Hey, I'm really fucking sorry, but this is gonna hurt like a motherfucker. I'll warn you before I put the drawing paste on it, okay?"

The kid gulped again, his eyes wide and rolling like a horse's. He knew what was coming, Dean guessed, so he stopped fucking around. No need to draw this out for the poor shit. 

Dean cut across the tat with the silver knife and immediately, dark blood rose in the shallow slash, became pus, then clear fluid. Dark lines snaked out from around the broken tattoo and skated the edges of the lump, turning the skin an angry red before dissipating. The kid was breathing so fast and shallow it sounded like barking. Despite Dean's warning, he actually howled for a few seconds before biting it off when the powdered amber—the drawing paste—got layered over the broken tattoo. Dean winced, bit his lip in sympathy as the poor super writhed and twitched, muffled moans making it past pressed-tight lips. It was bad, and Dean grabbed the kid's hand, instinctively trying to offer some kind of comfort and the kid actually grabbed back, squeezing hard, hanging on as he breathed frantically through the pain. 

"Almost done." Dean waited, counting out the seconds before he could speak the words that would break was was essentially a curse. The kid slumped, letting go of Dean's hand, letting go of everything for long moments before stirring again, groaning low in his throat. 

"Fuck me...fuck _you,_ that hurt like a motherfucker."

"Yeah, said it would, didn't I. C'mon, let's get out of here." 

The kid eyeballed him warily, a bleak expression settling over his face, and Dean felt bad for a second—he knew he sounded like he didn't care, but really, he just wanted to get the hell out and spare himself and Ellen in case some shitbag fake hunters actually did want revenge for Shit and his buddies. He might be a Menaletters agent and a hunter, but he was on his own here.

The kid shuddered and staggered to his feet, long, coltish legs trembling with the pain. "Lemme get my stuff…"

Dean cocked an eyebrow at him. "Kid...is there anything in there you actually _want?"_

The kid looked at the truck bed, looked at Dean, and growled. "Fuck yeah. This is _my_ stuff. I worked for this shit, it came out of _my_ money, my ass." He scrambled back into the truck, grabbing up a faded pink blanket, what looked like clothing, a pair of tatty sneakers, a small canvas bag and something that Dan couldn't really see. He dumped everything into the blanket and grabbed it up. 

The kid jumped down and startled Dean—he was as tall as Dean, something he didn't run across much, and leaner by far. His lanky, thin frame didn't carry much muscle, but what it carried was hard, defined. Like any softness had been carved away. 

The kid walked around the back of the truck, stopped in front of a still out-cold Shit and looked down at him. Worked his mouth and nailed the guy in the face with a thick glob of phlegmy spit. "If I was a were, I'd bite the shit out of you, fuckin' turn your ugly ass," he muttered. Casting a sideways glance at Dean, he swung out and kicked the guy once in the ribs. At the unconscious man's deep groan, he smiled, and then turned to Dean, a look of satisfaction lighting his face. 

Dean made a mental note not to piss the kid off, at least not if he was unarmed. 

"So, which one of these fucking rust bucket's yours?" the kid asked, rolling the tatty pink blanket into a makeshift pack and heaving it up onto his shoulder. 

"That fuckin' rust bucket on the end, the red one. And her name's Lucille, and just so you know, she don't take kindly to insults, Kid."

"Sam. My name's Sam."

"Oh...yeah. I'm Dean. Pleased to meet ya, Sammy, now get in the truck."

"Sam. Sammy's some fat an' happy little human shit, okay? My name is _Sam."_

"Man, with a fuckin' attitude like that, it's a miracle you ever survived, _Sam."_

Dean watched the kid—Sam—wheel around and stomp off towards Lucille. He stood there for a sec, grinning at the high, angry line of Sammy's shoulders, the emphatic stalk; he looked like a force of nature, and someone not to be fucked with. Or he would, once he got rid of those shorts that were showing his ass cheeks with each forceful step. Kinda jiggled with each—

"You comin' or what?" 

Interesting being, this Sam; obviously Shit-For-Brains—or anyone—never managed to break this kid. Good. Dean liked a fighter. 

Sam was waiting at the truck, arms crossed over his narrow chest and giving Dean the stink eye, so he trotted after. He bet this was going to be one hell of an interesting ride.


	5. Chapter 5

**Sam**  
The inside of the pretty guy's truck was thick with scent—smelled like him, booze, stale food, and smoke, a typical hunter's stink. But underneath it all was something good, something that pulled at him. Layered with the hunter stink was something sweet, like hay or dried grass. The smell of something not really wild, but not really tame, either. Sam settled his blanket between his feet, shoved it a bit deeper into the footwell. While his pretty new master messed about starting the truck, Sam took advantage of his distraction to secretly scent deeper, mouth a little open, and nostrils fluttering as he softly inhaled. He did it carefully because for some reason humans seemed to hate being scented.

Just as he leaned a bit towards the new master, the truck's heater kicked in, blowing warm air—which was a surprise, considering the age and condition of the old rattletrap. No surprise, though, that with the heat came the stink of old blood, mixed in with the guy's natural smell (which he hated to admit was damn attractive). Old blood, not so old blood, human, monster...a good reminder that this guy, no matter how he dressed it up, was a hunter, and what hunters did was kill monsters. 

_Yeah._ He leaned his head against the truck window and watched his new master through narrowed eyes, faking sleep. Pretty might throw around words like 'free' and 'no slave' and 'the law' and blah-fukin' blah, but Sam was no fool. He knew his worth lay between his legs and in his ability to be bait that survived. This guy, hunter, mole, whatever he was, was no different than the rest. Except better looking and maybe smarter and _that_ could be a problem.

Well, Sam thought. We'll see about that. He'd been surmounting problems of all sorts since he was a pup. He was pretty fucking good at it.

**1996**

_"What's in the cage, boys?"_

_Sam inched backward, eyes on the men coming close—one suddenly poked a stick between the bars, he yipped when pain shot through his thigh. He knew better than to cry out like that, but it _hurt_ , and it wasn't fair. He fought to keep back the tears that sprang to his eyes, rolled himself in a ball to hide himself from them as much as possible. After all these years and so many disappointments, he still tried to hide. _

_He heard them walking around the truck, smelled their breath and their blood and wished he could tear them open and drain them of every drop, just let it splash uselessly all over the road._

_"Skinwalker. It's locked into its skin, though, so it can't change, keep its beast locked tight. See? Paid a sorcerer to craft some silver runes and put them under the skin, something that works really well on 'walkers and shifters. Easier to keep them this way. Much more useful."_

_"Unh-hunh. You using it for hunting or what?"_

_Sam felt a growl building in his chest, bile rising in his throat. He knew what it meant when it said 'or what'. Seli-ma had to do that thing with many men, and now, he had to do it too. But he felt it was different with him. No one smiled when he did it with them, no one laughed. It was furtive and grunting and dirty and it hurt and sometimes he thought they liked it better when it did. No one ever said 'beautiful' to him, or praised his eyes or his hair. No one brought gifts or wanted to kiss him like they did Seli. No, he got the bad ones, the damaged ones who hit him, like a few had done to Seli. He got the ones who called him 'freak' and 'monster' and a—a—tempter or something like that. Some of them told him that it was his all his fault what happened, and that he must want it._

_If he could shift, he'd show them how much he wanted it. He'd bite their throats out like Seli had done, fierce and brave—he'd roll around in their blood and eat their hearts._

_"Hey, your little freak here is growling up a storm."_

_"Jeez fucking damn it, this little monster is a hard-headed un-trainable piece of shit. I oughta get rid of it. I beat the hell out of it and it still tries to bite me, little shit. If it didn't do such a damn good job of baiting other monsters, I'd have put it in the ground by now. That and it gives a blowjob that you wouldn't believe. S'why I bought it off the last guy who owned it."_

_"Jeez-fuck, I don't need to hear that that shit. Tell it to the perverts. Tell me what he knows about hunting, how old is he?"_

_Sam opened his eyes and stared at the human who referred to him as 'he' instead of 'it'. A human who was actually curious about him, and not just what he could fit in his mouth. He took an instant dislike to the man, and saw it was mutual...but Sam was pretty sure that with this guy, he might be able to survive. This one saw him as a living being, not a toy, or a bear trap. His current masters were going to kill him sooner or later; sooner, it felt like, what with not enough food, not enough rest, just non-stop hunting, fucking, beatings, and...Sam felt the sharp sting of tears, the black sludge of no hope filling him again. There was no end in sight._

_But._

_This one looked like a crafty animal, staring into the cage with all the warmth and kindness of a shifter, meaning none. Probably as self-centered as one, too. But. Something about him told Sam that he might—would—push Sam to the edge, but not off. That was some small thing to hope for anyway._

_Sam came to his knees in the cage—all the low ceiling allowed—and pressed himself against the bars. He lifted his lip in a silent snarl, testing the waters. Instead of reaching through the bars to slap him, the human laughed. It turned towards the other humans standing around the truck._

_"You know you're not supposed to have any supers under lock and key anymore, right? The new law forbids it. If a ranger or something catches you, there'll be trouble. Be a shame if someone were to rat you out."_

_"What? What the fuck—no human's gonna rat out another for a freakin' monster!"_

_The new man just went on talking right over the master, like he hadn't even spoken. "But me, I'm a good guy." Sam watched the man smile, the way his gaze bounced between Sam and his master. "I'll let you go, no problem, and I'll even pay you for this little thing."_

_He reached in his pocket and flashed a silver badge that Sam couldn't quite catch...sheriff's badge? Probably not. In Sam's experience, sheriffs didn't give a shit about monsters. Whatever the badge stood for, it made the other humans hiss and lean back, as if they expected a beating. Sam could only hope._

_"Yeah, I'm with the moles. Men of Letters registered inspector and recovery agent. But…" he unfolded a square of paper and tossed it to the men. "That's a certified voucher for two pound of salt at Grenly's Goods in Bedford. I'll take the freak off your hands and mum's the word. And no need to thank me for it."_

_"Fuck you, that's not even half the bounty on a pixie head. That freak brings in five times what that's worth at least once a month."_

_"Right then," the man said. "I'll just call my boss here and tell him what's up." He raised a hand to his head and started mumbling a spell or something, waving his fingers dramatically...Sam grinned inside as old Master cursed and kicked sand. He looked so frustrated it was hard for Sam to hold in a laugh. He couldn't believe that Master was falling for the new man's crap._

_"Fucking take him then, you bastard. Fuck you." The old master slunk off, and Sam took advantage of the new master's back being turned to laugh silently, tongue hanging out just to piss the old one off. It was a good feeling._

_"Whatever, jerkface." The man who'd suddenly become his new master muttered before yelling for someone. "Floyd! Come over here and help me get this little monster into the truck."_

_Another man came over, it leaned into the cage, an oily smile creasing his face. He leaned in and stroked Sam's cheek with a dirty finger, the yellowed, ragged nail catching on Sam's lip. "Hello, pretty thing. Look at you, so cute. Such a wide mouth, such pretty eyes."_

_"Oh for fucks sake you sick sonofabitch—wait until I'm not around. Now help me get this cage in the back of the truck. Got wind of a throw back pack of wolves out near the Deadlands, trying to harvest hearts. We're gonna make a fortune snuffing them and this little shit's gonna sniff 'em out for us. Say hello to your new masters, pup."_

_Sam gulped back a protest that he was no pup, not at ten...twelve...whatever age he was, he wasn't a baby, for sure. He leaned back from the new master's grin, and the oily, hungry look the other was giving him. Sam stared at Hungry, and made a show of wiping his mouth where he'd been touched—the master Sam was sure now was the boss laughed and Hungry turned an angry red. So what. He was going to get a beating anyway. They all did the same thing. Buy him, and then beat him half unconscious like that was supposed to teach him something or make him afraid. Assholes. Then half of them starved him which was stupid too, because then they'd have to pass up hunts until he could stand again._

_He just hoped that whatever these bozos did to him hurt less than what he'd already lived through._

=@=

Warmth made him feel lazy...reminded him how long he'd been cold. He kept his eyes closed and wallowed in Pretty's scent because, Jeezus, Sam couldn't remember ever being penned in with someone who smelled so damn good; it was even better in this warm, enclosed space. There was that animal part of Sam that wanted to shove his nose under this guy's arms where his real scent would be, or high up his neck, right in that little dimpled spot behind that ear, pretty with the way those dots curled around the shell of his ear..or no, deep between those curved legs, he was that fucking hot, smelled that damn good. Speaking of between his legs, he wondered when Pretty—ugh, what the hell had he said his name was? 

Deke…? Dan? Ah, no, _Dean,_ right.

Wondered when Dean was going to pull over and get to it. It usually didn't take a new master that long to rip into him, either to teach him who was master, or just because they liked the guilt-free fun of fucking monsters—or monsters that looked like boys. 

Sam shivered, and sat up, not able to pretend sleep anymore; his sudden movement startled Dean and the truck swerved a bit. Sam gave him a narrow-eyed stare. Kinda jumpy for a hunter….

"Fuck, dude, I thought you were out for the count. What's up? You need to piss or something?"

Sam just stared at him, shook his head, letting a nice thunderhead of rage build up to help him to get past this point. It worked, a little too well—his mouth roared off without Common Sense at the wheel. "So when the hell are you gonna do it? Pull over and we can get to it now. I'm ready. I'm always ready."

"What, you hungry or—oh. Oh!" 

Sam felt a sharp stab of fear—what he'd said, the _way_ he'd said it—fuck. Well, it'd be far from the first time his attitude earned him a beating. 

Dean, though, he just drove on, every few minutes shooting him wide-eyed glances. When Sam realized this guy was actually not going to beat him, it pissed him off even more for some reason. No way was this guy as fucking clueless about the whole master/slave thing as he _pretended._

He was doing a damn good job of acting it, though, the way his face was a bright red, dark enough to obscure all the spots splashed across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. His eyes looked even greener surrounded by that red. Sam smirked. He looked like a guilty little pup, gulping and staring through the windshield like the answer to life was sitting out there on the road. 

Dean opened his mouth a time or two, like a fresh-caught fish, before words kind of tumbled out. "Okay, ah, I'm not into dudes like that, really. I don't want that. I'm—I'm just doing my job. You just, shit, just shut the hell up and—and—go to sleep." 

Obeying without thinking, Sam slid down in his seat and closed his eyes. He curled a hand over his knee. His fingers flexed, absently kneading the kneecap that had been shattered into powder when he was a pup. Didn't hurt, not anymore, but he had a tendency towards phantom pain when shit went weird and sideways—and this was weird. Either this guy was for real, or he was a special flavor of sadist. And here he thought he'd been sampled by all the kinds there were.

**Dean**

Lucille shuddered her way down a less than perfect road, bumping her way eagerly towards a patch of the road that had been scoured nicely clean by magic nukes and was smooth as snot. Glass. Really smooth stuff. 

Anyfuck, she and Dean both would be grateful as fuck once off the suspension-screwing, kidney-pulverizing stretch of loose gravel and potholes and sundry old-time debris this part of the road was made of. A sharp inhale turned his attention towards his right; Sam would probably be glad to be off this washboard of a road too, though he hadn't said shit since he'd casually asked when Dean was going to rape him, for fuck's sake. He'd spent his time silent, occasionally gripping the dashboard like he wished he had claws, and stamping on the floorboards as if Dean couldn't handle his Darling. 

"You've been quiet 'cept for the occasional gasp of horror. What's up? Worried about the road? Or worried about me taking you to the MoLs?" Dean asked. The kid's—Sam's—head jerked towards him, attention focused laser-like on Dean. He was an intense guy, which, sure, made sense when your whole life depended on paying the right sort of attention. 

"Why? Should I be? You said we monsters are supposed to be free," Sam snapped and Dean marveled at his seeming inability to suck up even a little bit. 

"We don't say 'monsters' unless of course what we're talking about is really a monster, which you are not. 'Rado 's Menaletters calls guys like you Supers and you're full-blood citizens—as long as you don't eat anyone, that is."

Sam's nose wrinkled. "Gross. I'd have to be dead-ass starving to eat a human. You all are disgusting, the shit you put in your bodies. I like for my food to be cooked and for it not to be fuckin' _people,_ for Jeez sake. Bigot."

"Fuck you! Ain't talking about you personally, Dog-boy," Dean laughed, missing how Sam flinched, how he curled in a little more. He just went on chuckling to himself, thinking Sam's remark was funny as hell. All he heard was Sam's growled, "fuckever," in response, felt some disappointment when Sam turned away to stare out the window, leaving Dean feeling weirdly lonely and somewhat unsettled. Maybe he shouldn't have called him Dog-boy? But Sam had to know he didn't mean anything by it, he was just joking around….

=@=

They rolled on through miles of gray landscape, broken up by occasional outcroppings of stripped-bare rock, places where there used to be towns and now there were only wide spots filled with rubble bordering the road, gray on gray. Dean gripped her wheel, and as he drove he found himself keeping one eye on the endless road and one eye on his passenger. He was grateful Sam was there, keeping Dean from drifting worse than usual.

He was an original, this wild boy. He was a good looking kid with a tongue like a stiletto; that hadn't done him any damn favors. How the hell had he even managed to survive in one piece? As a kid, Dean had seen plenty of supers mangled for not being what their masters wanted, stuff like having their tongues taken for being the kind of smart mouth this kid was. Man, you could never go broke betting just how monstrous humans could be. No question that Sam had had a life of being used and abused by freaks who never would have done anything like that to a human child. 

What had happened to the mother, Dean wondered, and imagined it could only have been the worst. Skinwalkers were super possessive of their kids, like werewolves, and totally _not_ like shifters who tended to be kind of fifty-fifty about the whole parenting thing—they either doted on their kids, or practically popped them out on the side of the road and kept on strolling. Vamps of course had to recruit, what with being some form of dead and all….

Lucille jumped and complained loudly about hitting something in the road, a loud thump came from behind him as the green mailbag fell to the floorboard.

"Holy shit, Lucille—what have we said about killing me?" Dean muttered, and tightened his grip on the wheel. He'd better pay less attention to his passenger and more to the damn road before they ended up in a ditch somewhere. 

It was late by the time Sam woke again, the sun almost behind the hills. Dean flipped Lucille's lights on even though it wasn't completely dark yet. The road was finally clear, hardly any debris, but no sense taking chances. 

Despite the growing darkness, the hills around them were dotted with green, which meant the land was on its way to healing on this bend of the road—he could even feel it, like a weighted blanket had been lifted from his shoulders. He took a deep breath—exhaled. They were finally getting closer to being able to relax. 

One of his dad's favorite tunes, [Spirit In The Sky,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8aZsF7v0pNw) was in the deck, low so as not to bother Sleeping Beauty, when out of nowhere Norman Greenbaum was overridden by a low, angry rumbling, startling Dean so much Lucille wavered on the road. He clenched the wheel, peering around for whatever the fuck it was that might be coming after them….

When the growl rumbled through the cab again; he clamped a hand over his mouth to smother giggles—it was the damn kid's stomach complaining. 

Sam frowned and jerked in his sleep—finally coming awake with a surprised grunt when his stomach nearly howled. Dean bit his lip to keep from really belting out a laugh, until Sam lurched upright, quickly moving out of reach as he did, his hands coming up to shield his face. 

"What, the nest's cleaned out, lemme sleep, you dick," he mumbled, threw himself back against the seat when he actually opened his eyes to find Dean staring at him.

"Shit!" he yelped, "And ow. Have you been watching me sleep, creepo?" Sam winced, straightening, rubbing at his eyes. His hands went up to dig viciously into his hair, tousling it to stand out wildly. Dean disgusted himself by thinking a sleepy Sam was kind of cute. 

"Oh man," Sam moaned. "I was dreaming. Thought I was on a hunt. Something was chasing me down, growling at me…."

"Oh, definitely," Dean grinned. "I heard it too. You ready for some food?"

Sam's stomach howled in agreement. Sam snarled at the laugh Dean finally let loose, then kind of regretted, when Sam went still, his head down and his hands gripping the edge of the bench so tightly Dean was a little afraid he was going to pop his fingertips through the vinyl.

Dean shook his head—this kid. Well, shit, Sammy was going to have to lighten the fuck up, especially traveling with a someone whose sense of humor was as lowbrow as you could get, and not sorry about it in the least. Still, the kid was obviously hungry, and it wouldn't hurt to offer him a bite, it was just good manners and common sense.

"Hey, do me a favor, Kid, reach back and grab that bag right behind you; the green one, not the gray ones. I've got some jerky and water, some biscuits in the top of that. Should do us until I get to my next mail drop."

Sam pulled the bag over the seat, dropped it in the foot well and opened it, put the things Dean wanted between them on the seat before shoving the bag back behind them again. He eyed the little stack of dried meats, some recycled bottles filled with water and a handful of crumbly biscuits like it was steak dinner. 

"You're going to feed me after this, too? Shit-for-Brains only fed me once a day…" Sam pressed his fists against his roaring stomach. "He said I needed to learn humility and bein' hungry would help."

Dean snorted, shoved a water bottle at Sam. "I can see that lesson never took."

Sam grimaced at Dean, a sideways kind of rueful smile, before he drank a long pull, eyes closed, hands clasped around the glass bottle as if the experience was brand new. Then he said something that kicked Dean in the gut and made him wish 'Dog-boy' had never come out of his stupid mouth.

"Always had to drink out of a bowl, before," the kid murmured softly, more to himself than to Dean. "People who think they're funny…." 

_Jeezus, he should have kneecapped that sick fuck instead of popping him in the leg._ "Yeah, well, you're done with that." Dean snapped, angry at himself, the fake hunters, at the world; just a little bit. "You'll drink and eat like a damn citizen now, and when you're back with the rest of your kin, you'll eat whatever, however you want." 

"Hunh." Sam laughed softly, bitterly. "Yeah, I guess."

=@=

Later that afternoon, all of the biscuits and a dozen strips of jerky later, Dean came to his last village mail drop before he'd be hitting the road for the last leg of his journey. His final stop would be back home again, the MoL chapter house in Sioux Falls. He peered through Lucille's dusty windshield, not much impressed by the sad, dreary little huddle of houses and shops around this decent section of the road. 

"Well, here we are," he murmured and hooked the mailbag out of the truck's back seat. Sam slid out as well, looking around with interest, rolling up the long sleeves of the t-shirt he was currently wearing. He went to knot the bottom of it in a way that shortened the damn thing right under his damn nipples, but Dean reached out and slapped his hands away. "What I say about selling yerself?"

Sam stared at him. "Um...nothing?"

"Oh. Well—don't do it. The moles keep me in goods and stuff—I've got enough and then some. As long as I'm good, so are you. I've got you, okay?" he said and Sam's puzzled look cleared. He smirked, his eyes going narrow. 

"Okay," Sam said. "Got it."

"Yeah, alright. And just so we're on he same page, here." Reaching into the back seat, he pulled his duffle bag out, and rummaged in it until he pulled a pair of pants out. "Ah-ha! Here's a pair of jeans I scored a few rides back—take those JeezDamn bootyshorts off and put these on instead."

Sam took the jeans from him and frowned. They're kind of...baggy. Long, too. And they're brown."

"They're tan, and what the hell are you worried about? Suddenly you're fulla fashion tips? They'll keep your balls covered, how 'bout we celebrate that."

"Don't worry about my balls," Sam snarled, but went around the side of the truck, and a few minutes later, came out dressed in Dean's jeans, wearing the flannel shirt like a hunter would—buttoned up. Much better. 

This village made much less fuss over receiving its mail than Dean was used to; there was no off-the-cuff celebration like Bedford had thrown together. The people here looked tired, worn out from the job of staying alive. Still, they smiled when Dean unloaded his bag, and huddled together to wait as Dean held mail up, called out names. Though they were mostly silent as they walked away, clutching envelops or tiny packages to their chests, their expressions, the way they held themselves, radiated a subdued kind of pleasure, and gratitude. Dean flushed—he wasn't sure he deserved a reaction like that. He was just hauling the bags, is all.

"You guys hunters as well?" one of the villagers asked. Instead of walking away, he'd stood alongside Dean while he dug through the bag and parceled out envelopes. Fixing his gaze on Dean's shoulder, and blushing like he was on fire, he stuttered out, "It—it's just, we've had some, um, problems with a nest of feral vamps, and no complaints, but the MoL aren't getting back to our mayor and...I was hoping you might be willing to help." The guy shrugged. "I see your partner's a skinwalker. Hear that they're pretty good against vamps. He's...a free agent, right?" he asked hesitantly, like he was afraid to anger Dean, but also considered it his duty to ask—

Dean liked that he did. He pulled his badge out, held it up so that the man could inspect it, see that it was real silver, that the copper star gleaming in the middle was an authentic _Men of Letters: America_ badge. 

"Hell yeah, he's his own ma—being. Free to come and go as he pleases. Because anything else—" He glared at Sam, who was leaning against the side of the truck, and when he wasn't rolling his eyes at Dean, was giving the poor schmuck a come-hither-look. Not that the guy appeared to be interested in that way, though he blushed impossibly redder when Sam slid his tongue—slow, wet, pointedly—across his pink lips. 

"—would be _wrong."_ Dean finished with a snap. Sam huffed and pulled himself up into Lucille's bed, scrambling backwards to crouch under his blanket. At least he looked something like a hunter with Dean's jeans on instead of those damn ass-out cutoffs, for crap's sake. Though the unlaced boots and the way Sam had rolled baggy jeans up over his ankles was disturbingly...fuck, he'd rather bite his own tongue off than say sexy...little bastard.

Dean turned back to the guy waiting patiently. Took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"So, how about you give me the skinny on this feral vamp problem?"

=@=

Dean was brought to the village tavern, which did double duty as the city hall, to meet the mayor. He was led past a few tables before coming into the center of the room. There, at a table set slightly apart from the others, sat a thin, hatchet faced man—the mayor. 

He was casually sipping from a weird little cup, the edges decorated with flowers, and his expression was one of complete boredom. He was totally uninterested in the strange mailman showing up in his town unannounced. It was quite a performance, Dean thought. His eyes—in fact, the whole of him—radiated all the warmth of a basilisk, but looking into those well-deep eyes, Dean knew he'd just been read like a book. It made him feel uncomfortably exposed—off center—which was probably just what the bastard was going for. With his too-thin frame and dead look, all the man needed was a scythe and a hood to complete the picture of being The Final Judge.

A minute or two of silence passed, and then the man heaved a sigh that came from the floorboards. "Sit," he said. "Eat." He held up his hand before Dean could try to politely refuse. "It's my pleasure to share what we have. Despite looks, we do well here; we have good chefs." 

Dean nodded. He could see that, alright, they certainly did well. The tavern's outside might look shabby, like the rest of the village, but the lamp over the mayor's table was an electric one—he could hear the muffled chugging of a generator. The place was clean, smelled like cherry wood and spices. The people sitting around the mayor looked interested and aware—not at all like a people ruled by fear. Good. Dean had come up across a few too many places like that; good to see this was not one. 

Dean was impressed at how well they hid in plain sight, sort of hiding their light under a bushel, smart. He was sure the mayor had a lot to do with it, smart enough to keep his people safe. But..what the hell was a chef? 

While Dean was scoping out the joint, the mayor leaned to one side, the better to see Sam, who was doing his best to hide all of his tall self behind Dean. "And is that your monster?" the man asked.

"No, he's my _partner,"_ Dean shot back, and then cursed himself because damn it, he'd just made Sam his partner officially. Great. The moles were going to kick a bitch about having to pay out a bonus to an unregistered hunter, let alone an unregistered super. Well, fuck, they'd deal with that later. "This is Sam, and he's hungry too." 

The skeletal mayor's thin lips pursed minutely, the only sign he was none too pleased to have a 'walker sit to table with him, but Dean didn't give a shit. If he wanted Hunter assistance, then he'd have to take what he got.

"Fine," the mayor said, smooth voice dropping lower. "Bring them both the soup, and today's bread," he murmured to one of the men lounging at the table, who took off in a hurry to do what the Slim Reaper asked. 

"Now, as I'm sure you've heard, our problem revolves around a small nest of rather vicious feral vamps. Though I suppose what they have is not so much a nest as a...sort of cat box they've fallen into together. In the hills above the village, there's what's left of a resort…" Slim stopped, gave Dean a once over and sighed. "Of course you don't know what a resort is. There's an old hotel, built before everything fell apart. They've nested there. And now they're demanding tribute, as if they were some sort of royalty instead of a troop of half crazy, rabid monsters—no offense."

He directed a look down his nose at Sam, and Dean was pleased that Sam just pulled his head back and looked down his own delicate swoop of a nose at the bastard. "Sure," he sneered.

The mayor stopped. The look he gave Sam was one of surprise, and interest, before fading back into boredom. "They've taken five of our people, and the local vamp family refuses to do anything about it. They told us the feral ones were our problem, not theirs."

Dean nodded. No surprise that was the course they'd take. The Families would kill each other over vamp biz, but they weren't about to do it for humans. They'd trade with humans—vamps were damn good scavengers, bringing goods in from places humans (or weres) couldn't go, due to climate, lack of food or water, or the need to breathe regularly. 

In return, to keep the truce the Men had cobbled together after the end of the world, the vamps got their animal blood from the humans in trade: nicely, conveniently packaged, sometimes mixed with volunteer blood depending on the community. The vamps were industrious, always out to trade for new clothing, boots, knick-knacks—'cause they were non-dead, vain motherfuckers, with no creative ability of their own. Being dead-ish did that to you, Dean guessed.

Bowls of soup was set on the table, breaking into his vampirical ruminations. The soup smelled amazing, and looked it, thick with chunks of meat and potatoes. There were plates holding thick slices of still-warm bread, too. Something behind him let out a low roar, followed by Sam growling curses under his breath. 

Dean smiled, shook his head. _That's my hungry boy._

He pulled a chair out for Sam, making a show of seating him, gleefully ignoring Sam's bright-red face and irritated snarl. He sat himself then, and took a deep pull of the local-made beer Mayor Slim had slid over to them when their food appeared.

"Damn, that's good stuff; your guys know what they're doing." Dean set the glass down, and addressed the remarkable soup, wolfing down spoon after spoon. Ever-Fresh food was fine, but it lacked a certain something that fresh-that-day food had. 

When his tastebuds let him, Dean put his spoon down, leaned back from the table with a satisfied sigh and said, " All right, so you've been cleared, approval-wise, from the Not-Crazy Vamps. You wanna give me a map of the area and a headcount of the crazy ones? And when's the last time they took someone?"

"Ready for business. I like that in a man," Slim said. "Now, so I know who I'm dealing with—introductions. I'm Mr. May. Yes, yes, Mayor May. And you are?"

He frowned, noticing that May's introductions didn't extend to Sam—he didn't even look Sam's way. "I'm Dean Winchester, hunter first class, registered Man of Letters agent, and amongst the many jobs I'm tasked with is checking what's being tithed against what villages actually produce. Like this really damn fine beer…" The checking-on-tithing part was a lie, but May didn't know that. Dean smacked the glass down on the table top, licked his lips, and shot the mayor a grin. 

Mayor May went a few shades paler, and Dean grinned wider.

"Anyway, I need to talk to my bosses before I take this job on officially. Don't worry, I _will_ take it on," he said, glancing at the guy who'd treated Sammy with some concern and a dab of respect. The guy nodded, like Dean was having a pow-wow with him instead of Slim. "It'd just be cool to get the whole bounty if I get it registered as a job. Now, as to how I do the job—me and Sam here will work it alone. Feral vamps ain't amateur hour, okay?" 

Everyone at the table nodded in agreement, except for Sam, who was attacking the butter-soaked bread in front of him like it was his job, looking up only when the silence registered. "Whu?"

"Nothing, honey, you just enjoy your little snack there, and don't forget your napkin."

Sam grunted and went back to the bread. Dean turned to Mayor May with a bit of his smile still lingering—it evaporated at May's speculative look. "So, see here, what say we work out a deal between me and you? This beer is good, excellent even. I know you got plenty pork, that generator's not running on gas. How about we say, some smoked meat, some Sage, couple good bottles of that beer and some cooking spices? That's not a big hit—I can see by the looks of you you have plenty."

May nodded slowly. "True. It's not a lot to ask. But we don't want the fact that our situation is optimal made known to anyone."

"Understood. That's not the kind of information I pass about, anyway. My job is to deliver the mail and courier packages. I don't owe anyone, Moles included, more than that."

The mayor fixed a long, icy look on Dean. "All right. We have a deal."

=@=

After dinner, Dean and Sam retired to their lodgings for the night—a pile of blankets spread out in Lucille's bed. Not having to barter for shelter right now couldn't hurt. Instead of a room, Dean planned to stock up on stores, maybe ammo if they had it; if he was really lucky they'd have gasoline here, too. In the meantime, he'd best contact his home base; the Sioux Falls chapter house. He could mix business with a social call. And that meant hauling out the radio. 

He clicked on a small wizard's lamp, pushed aside the ugly, pink blanket Sam held onto like it was made of dragon gold; there was a locker on the rear of the truck's bed from which he took a small, somewhat battered wooden box from. It was draped in a piece of worn velvet, embroidered with some simple wardings. The front of the cedar box was decorated with brass dials and buttons, some of whose functions he didn't understand even after all this time—the old-school, original-flavor Men who'd forced the box on him were a close-mouthed bunch, not like his family in Sioux Falls. 

He lit one of his fancy smokes before taking a few pieces from the bag. Inhaling deeply, and blowing out a thin, satisfying stream of smoke, Dean set to assembling the radio, whose insides were an assortment of interlocking metallic pieces that made no sense to him. He knew how to assemble them, that was the sum of it. Along with the metal-puzzle insides, a preserved eagle's eye, and a pinch of sugar in a thumbnail-sized copper box went inside it as well. Dean attached a hand crank to one side, then a hook shaped like a claw on the other, meant to support a pair of headphones. 

Dean slid the headphones over his head—once he had them settled in place, he cranked, cranked, cranked the box until finally a series of tiny lights across the top flickered to life. It sputtered and crackled until finally settling into a quiet hum and a feminine voice said, _"Men of Letters, Grand Station South Dakota. How may we assist?"_

"It's me, Dean Winchester. Connect me to Bobby or Missouri, at the Sioux Falls chapter house, please."

_"One moment. Your proof of person, please."_

_Crap._ He hated POPs, but what could you do? Gripping the cigarette tightly between clenched teeth, he pushed his finger into a shallow dip in the headphone-side of the box and winced when a pinpoint of pain bloomed in the pad of his finger. Sam turned towards him, the edge of the blanket he'd had tucked over his head sliding down. He sniffed, head tilted. Picking up the scent of blood, Dean guessed, so he jerked his head towards the box and rolled his eyes. 

Sam nodded. No doubt Sam understood all about sorcerers, magicians, witches, and the goofy stuff they got up to. 

_"Dean, hello. It's so good to hear from you. It's been more than a minute, dear. And stop whining about that tiny pinprick, I swear."_ Missouri's voice came out clearly from the radio.

"What? It hurts! Anyway, I'm sorry about the radio-silence, Miz. I took the route past Boulder and got saddled with the mail and some mole, I mean, MoL drops. I'm calling to check in on you—"

_"And to get permission for a vamp hunt, I picked up on that. Now, who's this you got traveling with you, honey? You find a cousin or something out there?"_

"What? No, I recovered a skinwalker a while back. We've been traveling tight—did you mix us up some how?"

_"Maybe...he doesn't quite feel like a 'walker, exactly. Well. Come on by after you do them vamps. In the meantime, I'll get you registered, get a bounty fixed for you. Be careful."_

"Why? Why'd you say that? Is something—"

 _"I said 'be careful' because that's what you say when a loved one goes off to a dangerous job, sweetheart. No matter how skilled they are."_ Her tone was sharp and a little exasperated, clear to Dean despite the distance.

"Oh. Okay," Dean half laughed. 

_"Um-hum. Go on, get some sleep. And remember I want to see the both of you soon. Also, I told you stop smoking that tobacco, it's bad for you. And don't smoke all that Sage you got for Bobby, you hear?"_

"Yes ma'am, Miz. Love you too."

He hung up smiling, found himself caught in Sam's gaze. He tossed the butt and raised an eyebrow at Sam. "Hmm?"

"Who was that?" Sam asked. The look he gave Dean seemed like he was trying for mildly interested, but it kind of shot past that into...jealousy? Dean shook his head. What the hell did the kid have to be jealous of? Dean decided his brain was melting down or something. 

He plopped the headphones on the box, and said, "Was talking to my second mom—I mean a lady who's like a mother to me. Missouri helped my dad to raise me, taught him a lot about the life. Motherly woman with a backhand like a sledge hammer and the ability to shoot a gnat's asshole out."

Sam nodded seriously. "Skill like that comes in handy."

Dean started, and burst out laughing. "Was that a joke? Did you just tell a joke?"

"Fuck you," Sam smirked, and rolled back up in his blanket. Dean watched him for a while, putting off the paper work he'd have to do, watched the long, slim shape of Sam, the faint wash of lamp light on his cheek highlighting a perfectly placed beauty mark….

 _Beauty mark? What the fuck?_ Dean turned his whole body away from Sam and glowered at the MoL radio. "That damn thing _is_ giving me brain damage."

=@=

The place May described sat back in a clearing in the woods, a circular sort of track nearly swallowed by a flowering vine that led to a pair of double doors, empty frames now, surrounded a spray of glass shards. Dean listened for Sam at his back and could barely hear him—smart, well-trained. He felt a brief shiver of guilt. Sure he was good at this, the kid had been bait his whole life. 

They eased over the threshold—Dean didn't bother to waste Sam's time explaining that the vamps would be sluggish, sleepy in the day time. Dark inside the place or not, the sun was high in the sky now, and would be fucking with their response time. Sam knew that. What Dean didn't expect was Sam's puzzled face when he handed him a machete. Sam held it in an awkward sort of grip at arm's length, like he was ready to drop it in an instant. Gave Dean an eyebrow-cocked look of _'what the hell?'_

Damn it, of course Sam was shit at handling weapons, nobody armed bait, for suck's sake. Dean jumped back when Sam suddenly swung the machete through the air. He slashed downwards and across, a move that while definitely awkward and a little shaky, would have taken a vamp's head off clean enough. He glanced at Dean, and smirked. 

Of course his little monster knew how to swing a blade—sort of. Kid probably knew the basics of everything; must have watched everything around him like a hawk. If he hadn't had that tattoo on his neck along with the lock-in-spells.... 

Just how safe was it to have an armed, perpetually pissed-off skinwalker at his back? Dean narrowed his eyes at Sam, who immediately retreated behind a frown. Now, though, Dean could make out disappointment in his expression as well. Sam scowled harder as the tip of the blade lowered. 

Taking a leap of faith, because for some fucking reason he was beginning to trust the brat, Dean hissed, "Shit, son, keep it, watch out for the suckers and swing for the bleachers when they come, you hear me?" 

Sam jerked, astonishment opening his eyes wide, and the machete flew up again. Sam nodded, so hard his hair flew around his face. _Like an eager puppy._

It was a small nest of vamps, but they were obviously bat-shit crazy, all of them. There were bits and pieces of bodies everywhere, and the place smelled like the back end of a rendering factory during a heatwave. 

Dean worked his way as quietly as he could through the tangle of rotting meat and heaped cast-offs of the vamps' victims: shoes, clothes, hair. Here and there Dean's eyes were drawn to things glinting in the low light—jewelry hung from broken beams and smashed bits of furniture. It was like skulking through the nest of gigantic, insane magpies. 

He looked up at a soft clucking sound. Sam was poised over a sleeping vamp, one finger over his lip and the machete held high. Tipped his chin at Dean and Dean nodded: right, they should both lower the count before the vamps woke—which the fuckers would at the first stroke through one of them. _Smart move, Sam..._

Dean got in position, and at Sam's count, they struck together—two suckers down from the jump. The rest rose up out of the garbage, screaming in rage and really, for creatures that were supposed to move slow during the high sun, they darted about like hyperactive lizards. Fucking fuck—these vamps were faster than they should have been—the crazy in them eating up any resemblance to human beings. Still, between Sam's skinwalker reflexes and strength, and Dean's experience and skill, they put the nest down neatly. Mostly neatly, Dean thought, staring down at the hacked-up huddle of headless, and a few limbless, blood-suckers. He was covered with scratches, Sam too, a few of them maybe deep enough to need stitches, though Sam's probably wouldn't. 

Dean took a deep breath and closed his eyes—opened them again quickly when his brain insisted on rewinding the tape to vamps jittering all the fuck over the place, hissing and roaring, mouthfuls of needle sharp teeth and body parts flying—

"Fuck me…" He reached for the small knife he'd strapped to his ankle, hissed when movement scraped the tatters of his shirt against his wounds. He kicked one of the bodies in the gut. _Fucker._ He was about to give it another kick, just because, when he heard Sam calling him. He'd sent Sam to the truck right after they'd hacked the head off the last one to put together a set up for washing. It was something familiar and hopefully settling for him; like Sam said, it'd been one of his jobs since he was a pup. He assured Dean he knew just what was needed: holy water, salt, soap, nothing too complicated. 

"Good boy. While you do that, I'll take the bounty proof and meet you by the truck." 

Sam had already cleaned his weapon and washed himself by the time Dean had collected proof of death; he had water for Dean ready when he came out. And...he was wearing one of Dean's shirts. 

Dean was surprised, but not pissed off by that. Hunting was a game that, if you had a partner, your shit was pretty much community property. There were plenty of times he'd worn his dad's stuff, and vice versa. But looking at Sam standing there, stretching out the shoulders of Dean's t-shirt, the material pulled tight against his chest...well, he'd never felt quite like this when he'd seen Dad in his clothes.

Sam in the meantime, had backed up against the truck. One hand was in a tight fist at his side, the other was rubbing hard at his knee. He was looking slightly to the left of Dean, his head tipped a little, just enough to put a sweet curve in his neck. Before Dean could ask if his knee had gotten fucked up, Sam snapped, "I just. I needed your shirt—a shirt. Mine was, it was—" His lip curled, showing teeth. 

"Hey, it's cool," Dean quickly said, hands out and a smile on his face. "I mean, you're stretching the hell out of it, but it's okay. Good taste, dude. Zeppelin rules."

Sam had obviously never heard of Led Zeppelin in his life, but he relaxed, and while not quite smiling back, jerked his chin at the bucket. "Ready for you."

Dean beamed at him, tucked what was left of his shirt into the laundry bag and ran the cold, soapy water quickly over his arms and chest, trying to act like soap in his cuts didn't sting like a bitch. "What a night, hunh?" 

Sam just rolled his eyes as he collected the gray water, but Dean was pretty sure he detected the ghost of a smile on his mug, too. And if Dean sort of incidentally flexed his biceps and pecs as he was wiping off, just a bit, well—it was worth it for the snort, and the blush he earned from Sam.

  
phoenix1966


	6. Chapter 6

**Sam**

"Hey, good news," Dean crowed. "We got a room added on as part of the payment—plus the MoLs will give us the full bounty on feral vamps, fifty of their credits a head. Good, right?"

Sam looked back at the truck, and the elegant rosewood box in its bed holding six hanks of hair. After the hunt, he'd offered to bag the heads, but Dean had insisted he didn't need to cart whole heads off, or chop off body parts when the MoLs could tell everything about a score from a couple of pieces of hair or a vial of blood. Sam had been some surprised at that, because every hunter he'd ever ridden with had taken ears, or fingers or noses.

"That's because the people you've met have been the scum of the earth. Real, registered, accredited hunters don't do shit like that. They have back-up, and education, and fucking respect."

Sam nodded and acted like he believed Dean. How the hell did this guy make it through life, naive as he was? If Sam hadn't seen him hacking away at those vamps, covered in blood and bits of sucker and grinning like a crazy person, he'd have said the guy was too soft to live, definitely too fucking soft for a hunter. Instead, the guy turned out to be an efficient and enthusiastic killer. Sam shook his head. Dean worried him. 

And frankly, fascinated him too much. 

Fuck, the first thing Sam had done when they got back to the truck was root through the guy's laundry bag. He'd gone crazy in the vamp's nest—he'd come out fucking _needing_ to have something of Dean's next to his skin. The need had overpowered his common sense and self-preservation and he knew there was a possibility that Dean would kick the shit out of him, if not put him down for stealing, but he'd had to. The minute he'd had the damn shirt on, when he was surrounded by Dean's scent, his whole self settled. He'd never felt anything like it before. 

When Dean had walked out of that place with the bounty, Sam felt torn between running for the hills, and ripping Dean's throat out. Or swallowing his dick. He'd been ready for anything Dean might dish out—a beating, a capping, anything. Instead, the fucker had just smiled, and Sam wasn't really sure, but he thought he'd caught a faint whiff of...well, maybe Dean wasn't as uninterested in fucking him as he insisted. 

Sam would keep an eye on him. 

After taking payment, and getting some extra goods as well—Dean got the gifts of a jerrycan of real gas and some new blankets, plus several loaves of fresh bread someone had shoved into Sam's arms, and wasn't that a hell of a fucking surprise—they rode out of May's village and headed in the general direction of the mountains. The drive was rough as usual, but good in that again, he didn't have to worry about being tossed out of the truck bed. It hadn't even been that long, and he was already beginning to sort of think of the passenger side as his...though he'd eat his own tongue before speaking that crazy thought out loud. 

=@=

Climbing higher into the mountains and closer to the Deadlands made for a rough ride. It was a little different from the nuked roads Dean had driven over so far. Huge sections of the road were demolished, the surface littered with half-melted vehicles and every few miles, there were deep round holes, like giant poles had crashed through the road deep into the earth. Parts of the road were smooth sailing, but they were the creepy parts. Scoured clean as if someone had taken a blade and shaved every feature higher than a dandelion away. The roads weren't just glassy smooth nuke-glass—they were cursed. The constant stink of something beyond death made Sam's nose run, his chest feel tight. Every inhale felt like a steel band around his forehead, squeezing tighter with each breath. They crested a pass, right before the road angled downwards again, and the atmosphere changed again. The pain, the feeling of being squeezed evaporated, and they were now in parts of the mountain that were truly sterilized, not just cursed, or human nuked. Here, sorcerers' magic had burnt into the ground so deeply, not even ghosts survived. These were the parts where anyone who spent more than a few days went insane. Here was the _'Dead'_ of the Deadlands. Sam knew how deceptively horrible these parts were—the loco were he'd 'helped' put down a few days ago had come out of these parts. Poor, fucked-up, dead-on-his-feet monster.

They continued angling downward. The lower down the mountain they drove, the happier Dean seemed, the better Sam felt, and even Lucille seemed more chipper. It was clean here, free of poison. The road widened, pig farms and fields started appearing, and a mix of vehicles began popping up on the road as well—trucks and tractors alongside horse-drawn carts and carriages. Children strolled next to the road, leading goats, sheep, dogs dancing between them. Children were a good sign, Sam thought. It meant people were settled enough and felt safe enough to let their children go outside without guards. Settled, safe people were less inclined to want to kill a freak on sight. 

The road leveled out and still Dean drove, past the houses getting closer together, and the fields getting larger, past what looked like orchards and maybe vineyards.; on and on, until the houses began to thin out again, and they were driving through a collection of houses so sparse they didn't seem to be part of the village. Dean sang, ignoring Sam's small whines of irritation. At the moment, he had one of his tapes in his tape deck, and was doing some injustice to what he called a [Metallica, or was it Whiskey in a Jar?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OIh3nO6-V_A) The Jar? Whatthefuckever, it was awful. He wished Dean would go back to the Elvis. That hadn't been as horrible.

Eventually Dean pulled off the main road, guiding Lucille down a narrow lane. They came to a stop at long last—Sam was out of the car almost before Lucille slowed to a total stop. He groaned, and stretched, bent and twisted trying to get some life into his limbs again. Lucille ticked and groaned and moaned herself, poor old rustbucket. He reached out and patted her fender, feeling kind of stupid, but he couldn't help it. She was trying so hard. When he looked up again, he caught Dean staring at him, a horrible _fond_ expression on his face.

If he'd been just a few steps closer, Sam would have taken a chunk out of him. And just as he had that thought, Dean's expression shifted; he smirked at him, and gave him a slow wink before patting Lucille himself. 

Jeezus. Dean was—he was—he just _pissed_ Sam off to no end.

The road had ended in small circle of gravel and dirt, with a shop sitting in the middle of it. A sign hanging from the porch that graced the front of the shop sparked Sam's interest. There were words, which meant nothing to him, and a few sigils painted on it which he did recognize, but they weren't in any kind of sensible order. It looked like someone who knew nothing about magic painted the sign, and just chose pretty symbols. But the thing was leaking power, he could feel it crawling over his skin. 

The shop itself smelled of meat and spices and sugar. It looked a bit tumbledown, but friendly, despite the cold waves of power dancing around it. He glanced over to one side of the building, towards a yard that was filled with piles of metal, heaps of glass vessels and bottles, and stacks of wood, cut and raw. A firepit stood in the middle of that heap of objects, flames chirping as they ate up wood.

Between the shop and the yard, chickens hopped about and a lone, yellow dog silently watched them approach from its perch on the front half of some sort of car; the back half was nowhere to be seen. 

"So, this guy we're coming to see is something of a scavenger, a human one," Dean explained even though he didn't need to, especially to Sam. "I got a little something Bobby sent along in the Menaletters bag for him, hoping he's got something for me."

Sam had no real idea what Dean was going on about, but this Bobby guy must be someone with a lot of clout—Sam could feel the power coming from the burlap sack Dean held; stronger even than what he felt from the shop. It smelled of herbs and burned bone and old blood, and when he brushed against it, he felt little sparks of power, like electric shocks running over the skin. The bag was not a bad thing, but it was not a good thing either. It was just power, and what it did depended on the intent of the person holding it. 

He knew for sure that it was dangerous in the hands of someone not skilled, even if their intentions were good. Too many sorcerers and witches had pinned attention on Sam for him not to know how dangerous spells and spellworking could be. 

Dean caught him frowning at the bag and shrugged. "Yeah, sometimes, we just do what we have to do, and don't ask a lot of questions." and Sam nodded. That was true. 

Dean stepped up to the doorway of the shop and slammed his boot into the steel kickplate a few times, until the door flew open and someone roared, "WHAT?"

Sam startled backwards, blasted by the volume of his shout, and the power rolling off of the person who'd shouted—and just how _hot_ he was. The guy was big—taller than Dean by a little bit, well-built and dark-skinned, sporting a salt and pepper beard and a smirk that made Sam's skin crawl, but not exactly in a bad way.The guy met his eyes, one brow raised in surprise. Sam felt caught by those eyes, dark, warm, and intense. 

"Who's our traveling companion then, Dean-o? Friend or job?" Sam caught a slight accent of some kind, that and the hint of a growl in his voice pulled Sam's full attention to him, fascinated by the way the guy smelled; a little off, so he smelled not quite human, despite obviously being so. Sam inhaled, tasting him—barely kept himself from sneezing. The power the man carried wasn't native to him. Yeah, this guy was pure human but powerful. Fascinating.

Those dark eyes traveled the length of him again, and the sideways little smirk he gave Sam was more knowing than the one he'd graced Dean with—still, there was that same hint of affection in it.

Dean laughed. "Don't you worry about him, Lou. Here, something you could use considering you insist on climbing through garbage dumps and nuke spots with no back-up."

"Luther, damn it, tell you time and time again. Humph," Lou huffed. "And I'd have a partner, but the one I want won't take the hint, 'n no one else can keep up with me." 

He led them in, and inside was just as scattered and messy as outside. Luther cleared a space on a bench and set down the bag Dean handed him, and whistled as he looked through it. "This is high powered stuff. You sure Bobby only wants two of my hex bags? Got enough here to make a couple more—" 

He looked up at Dean, who shook his head no. "Well, in that case, tell him I said thanks. I can make a coupla ordinary hex bags outa this...enough to sell for a good price, plus gift Bobby back. Sweet." He looked up at Dean again, this time with a playful grin, eyes sliding over him slow and heavy. "Sure you won't give partnering up a thought? You, me, the open road, and my wildly skilled fingers?"

"Man, I got a partner now," Dean laughed, turning bright red and pushing Lou back from where he'd eased up on him. "Besides, I don't swing any of the ways you do, man. Now since I came all the way out here, you got something for me as well?"

"Ah ha, beautiful, you know I do, thick and heavy and hot as a—okay, okay," he laughed, when Dean punched him hard in the arm. "I got gas for you, a couple of jerries, and some good, clean fatfuel personally rendered—it'll burn hot and fast and clean up after a hunt in no time. And on the subject of gas and fuel...you know you're going to have to dump that gas-eater eventually, Sweet. Switch over to diesel...I got my eye out for just the right vehicle for you." 

Sam sat back watching them banter—smirked himself at Dean's horrified look at the suggestion he set Lucille aside. When Lou smiled at Dean this time, none of the joking kind of lust was in it, just pure affection. It must be nice to have friends who liked you back, Sam thought.

=@=

They stayed over that night, crowding around a tiny dining table to share dinner with Luther. He was not only an excellent spell-caster, he was a good cook too, making a pasta with tomatoes and peppers and sausage—Sam and Dean both inhaled plates of it as Luther looked on, grinning. They bumped elbows and knees as they ate, and downed mug after mug of a sweet wine Luther made himself. After pasta came a fruit bread, and over slices of it, Luther and Dean exchanged stories, some so outrageous and fantastical that Sam managed to put aside how much he hated humans, and laughed along with them. It was fun, the way they seemed to want to top each other to make Sam laugh harder. 

Along about the third bottle of sweet wine, Luther slid a warn, heavy hand on Sam's thigh, bickering good-naturedly with Dean as he eased his way up higher and higher, pushing Sam's legs apart until he was cupping his rapidly hardening dick. Sam glanced over at Dean, who looked like any moment he was going to crash, and back at Luther, who was hot as fuck and Jeezus, Sam was so fucking over being celibate. Despite the stink of magic coming off the man, Sam wasn't picking up any especially dangerous vibes, and he had such a silky laugh, and kind eyes and a smooth, plush mouth that Sam wanted to feel on all parts of his body. He wanted to know, was the dick as thick and hot as Luther claimed….

Dean was two steps from passing out when Luther slipped an arm under his shoulder and got up to walk Dean back to the room he'd set aside for guests. He fixed Sam with those intense eyes and said, "If—and _only_ if you're interested—go to my room and take your clothes off." 

Now, that sounded like a plan to Sam. He didn't even wait for Luther to point his room out. He followed his nose to it, and stripped out of his stuff quickly as he could. He dug around in the small table bedside, and, "Ah-ha." Found the lube he figured would be there. He leaned one knee up on the bed, opening himself and rubbed a good amount of lube inside himself, hissing at how perfect it felt just having his own fingers inside. He bit back a small moan, and heard, "Um, don't be quiet, let me hear you. I like a loud and enthusiastic partner."

Luther. How had he missed the feel of all that power creeping up on him? 

Luther picked Sam up, lifted him straight up in the air like he was made of dandelion fluff, and tossed him to his back on the bed. Sam laughed, for once genuinely amused by a john. 

"What do you want from me," he purred. "How do you want it, baby?"

"Baby...I like you callin' me that." Luther dropped his clothes in an untidy heap at the foot of the bed, then crawled up until he was arched over Sam, knees bracketing his hips, hands pressing the mattress down on either side of Sam's head. He dipped his own head, and licked a long, wet stripe up Sam's neck, stopping to nip at his earlobe, suck it as he see-sawed his hard dick up and down Sam's quivering stomach. 

Sam whispered a thin groan. It actually felt good to him, and he wanted it more than he'd thought he did, which made it worlds better. Sam arched up and moaned a little louder as Luther's tongue worked around his ear, sending shivery little pulses all through him. Sam had no idea that messing with his ears could be such a turn-on. Luther bit down on his neck and sucked hard as if he was going for blood, and rutting against Sam, left a puddle of precome on his trembling belly. This was insane, it was overpowering. Sam had never felt this way having sex with anyone before. "Jeezus," he whispered, and Luther snorted. 

"Not in this room."

Luther rose up, dragging his dick over Sam's hot skin until it bumped his chin. He laid it on Sam's lower lip, painting it with precome. "Open," Luther said, and Sam gasped. Not quite an order, but definitely expecting Sam to obey. Sam fluttered his lashes, opened wide and let Luther slide in. 

"Good boy."

He was thick and hot and heavy, just as he'd promised. Sam sucked slick off of him and let the tangy, salty flavor of it slide down his throat. He reached up and squeezed Luther's ass, coaxing him into a rhythm Sam found comfortable and, and fuck, sexy as hell. He loved the roll of Luther's hips, confident, aggressive, like a dance. Loved the feeling of Luther skating over his tongue, sliding deep into his throat, loved the brief seconds when there was nothing in his throat but dick, no room for air, no room for anything but Luther. It was good. 

Sex being good had happened so very rarely in his life that he threw himself open to enjoying it. Eyes closed, the person over him wasn't Luther, with his chocolate dark eyes and skin, his wide shoulders and long, straight legs—Sam jerked, eyes flying open when he realized in his mind's eye the body over him was pale, freckled, and green eyes were locked on his. 

_Shit._

Luther drew out of his mouth slowly, slowly, letting spit and precome drool down Sam's chin. He reached out, thumb smearing wet along Sam's lips, down his neck...he kissed his way along the wet trail, stopping to suck and bite at Sam's nipples until Sam was writhing with the feeling, tiny lightening strikes zinging under his skin. 

"Now," Luther said, "I'm going to fuck you and you're not going to make a sound the whole time—not one." He kissed the peak of Sam's nipple, "—little—" He sucked hard, stretching the hot, abused nub as far as he could, making Sam bite down on a confused yelp—it felt good, and not good at once. "Peep." And he bit—a hard, quick nip, that he immediately soothed, laving the poor nub with his tongue. "Let's see how good a boy you can be."

Luther pulled back, grabbing the lube from the side table and slicked a handful over his dick, then scooped Sam's legs up and over his arms, exposing him, spreading him wide. Normally, it was a move that irritated the hell out of Sam, but this, with Luther, and how much he was enjoying the way Sam was enjoying it, just felt...right. Fun.

"My good boy, all ready for me, Beauty..." Luther eased in, making way by sheer force, giving Sam little time to adjust but it was okay. He'd expected the man to slam right in like gangbusters, like too many johns did, thinking it made them macho or something. This, though...fuck, it was hot. The second Luther's dick breached him, it sunk in deep, and kept on going, fucking deep and steady and grazing that spot inside that only Sam had ever touched because he'd never been fucked by anyone who thought Sam's pleasure counted for anything. Luther made sure to, and even though Sam was going to be sore as shit tomorrow, he threw himself into it. He came when Luther wrapped a hot hand around his dick and squeezed, stroking a tight hold once, twice, rough palm working over the head of his dick ‘til he fell over. He came silently, as ordered, and dragged Luther right with him. 

If the face he was picturing gasping out their release was freckled and biting plump, red lips, hey, Luther probably wouldn't have give a damn—hell, he'd probably understand.

Both of them lay still, just breathing, for long minutes, until with a chuckle, Luther rolled to one side, and rummaged around on the edge of the bed. When he rolled back to face Sam, he shoved a warm cloth against his chest. Sam blushed, a little overwhelmed with Luther's kindness. He was grateful that Luther ignored it.

"So. Shifter? Skinwalker? Were…?"

"Skinwalker." He sat up and turned away from Luther to clean himself, flinched away when Luther reached out and touched the trio of scarred lumps on his neck.

"Well, hell. I'd be ready to gut the boy right now, hot ass or not, for this. But I can see they're very old. This was from before, right, when it was still legal." Luther shook his head. "We've been through some hard times, haven't we? Most people are still okay with making slaves of your kind."

Sam moved out of his reach. "This was good, don't fuck it up with trying to make yourself feel better by fucking me and them whining about it."

Luther barked a laugh. "Fine. You're...not what I expected."

"I've been told that a million times. It's never been followed up by anything good. Why are you this way?"

"I got dropped here at a young age. Parents died, no one wanted an extra mouth to feed, not when I was too little to do much. Sorcerer found me and for some reason didn't use me in a spell. He was an ass, but he taught me everything I know. I remember hiding when the beasts came out at night, eating humans, monsters, anything in their way. I remember the sorcerers fighting—spells rolling over the earth, cooking everything in their way, beasts too stupid to move, and everything else too helpless to survive." 

Luther drew in a shuddery breath, then turned towards Sam and laughed. "Sorry, little 'walker, I don't know why I'm babbling here. You poor captive listener, you."

"It's okay," Sam murmured, kneading fingers along the twisted scar on his knee cap. "I don't remember any stuff like that. Just my mom, and the johns, and being hungry sometimes, until she got killed and I got sold."

"Yeah, we probably had a similar upbringing."

"Not if you didn't trick," Sam said, done with sharing and caring.

Luther picked up on Sam's impatience with him, and dropped the sharing and caring. "Yeah. Listen, let me give you something, Beauty."

"I didn't do this for trade," Sam huffed. 

"I know. It was good. I like you, you listened to me whine. You deserve something for that. This, it's not a big thing, okay, supposed to be a protection. You take it. Protect yourself. I want you to...stay safe."

Sam took the thing from Luther. He stared at it, holding it between his fingers, wrapping the leather strip around his hand. "Thank you, he said seriously, nodding. "I...had fun."

"Well, fucking amen to that, so did I," Luther laughed. "Let's sleep. I cuddle."

"Oh, great." Sam frowned, but gripped the only gift he'd ever gotten in his whole life in his fist, and didn't let go all night.

=@=

When they drove out the next morning, there was a definite air of silence being strained in the cab. After a few dozen miles, Dean hesitatingly said, "We don't need you to do that, you know. I'm the one who's keeping this thing going. My mole gig is lucrative enough, okay?"

Sam flicked a look over at Dean, pulling the strip of leather holding the pendant through his fingers. Sam tugged the pendant attached to the loop into sight—it was a little bronze figurine—a head, horned head. Sam sighed and handed it to Dean. "Here. He gave me this. Not a price, I did it for fun. He was fun. Take it." 

Dean reached out, his fingers brushing against Sam's when he touched the pendant, sending a tingling through Sam's hand. Dean made a tiny sound, as if he felt it too. Sam cursed himself for being an idiot. "Go on. _Take_ it."

"I don't...okay, thanks, I guess...you sure? I mean, this is pretty cool, Sam." 

"Good, then you keep it," Sam said, with an emphatic nod. "It's not for things like me anyway."

"Sam…" Dean started, but Sam turned his head and rolled up against the door. 

"Tired. Sleeping." He could see Dean from the corner of his eye, the way the man watched him for a bit, then dropped the pendant over his head, settled it against his chest. Patted it softly with a small smile. Sam was glad that he'd given it to him, glad he hadn't made much of a fuss about how he'd gotten it. He sighed, and settled down into real sleep.

=@=

Halfway back down the road they traveled earlier, Dean pulled Lucille over outside of a huddle of houses, stopping in front of the cottage farthest from the rest of the houses. It was tidy, small, and completely boring. "So, I got a favor to cash in here. And it involves you." 

He reached over and opened the glove box, pulled out a cardboard box covered with sigils drawn in blue ink. Looked like maybe lockouts to Sam, which meant something powerful was in the battered little box. 

Dean had a gun in his lap, a gleaming chrome gun, its barrel engraved with a floral design of some sort along the length, but just for looks, not power. He saw that the grip was a time-mellowed piece of ivory, which if he remembered correctly had some mild, protective properties. Dean saw him looking and smiled.

"That's my Baby, he said laying a possessive hand over the gun. "She's had my back since I was a teen. M'dad gave it to me. Found her when we first lit out, free and clear, sitting on the side of road, just like that. Like it was meant for him, he used to say." Dean shook his head. He loaded her, explaining to Sam that the ammo was witch killing bullets. "Not that I'm gonna need them, probably," he said. "Me and Rowena go back a ways but…" he shrugged. "You know witches, they got short fuses and a passionate nature. Change like the wind." 

=@=

Sam followed behind Dean to the cottage. There were no cat skulls above the door, no bones interwoven with red thread at the gate. There were pots of herbs lining a short walk, and the wreath on the door was just an interwoven circle of ivy. The windows were wide, with bright curtains framing the view. There was a huge garden, and as they opened the gate to the neat little fence surrounding the cottage, a tall, bare-chested, very fit man with a hoe over one sweat-glazed shoulder came strolling from around the side of the house. He smirked at them, winked at Dean and walked past, headed towards the gate. 

"That woman," Dean muttered, leading Sam to the front door. He tapped at the round window set in the middle of the door and let himself and Sam in.

"Hey, milady. Come to collect on my favor..."

The svelte, red-headed woman lifted her head from the book she was reading. She sat at a monk's table, the surface in front of her covered with jars and boxes and bags, some spilling their contents. "Come in then, sit down. I've been waiting for you." Her voice was lilting, held a bit of an accent, like Luther's, though not the same. Sam liked the sound of it. The smile she gave them was a tight, prim thing that was just a hair from becoming a sneer. Her eyes widened a bit when her gaze slid past Dean and landed on Sam. She frowned, and gestured him closer, and at Dean's nod he sidled up to her hesitantly. None of his experiences with witches had ever been positive. 

She took his hand, ignoring his flinch and stroked it, pulled it closer and for a moment Sam thought she was going to bite his fingers, but she just sniffed, delicately, then took the tip of his finger into her mouth, ignoring Dean's startled "hey!" and Sam's initial impulse to yank it back.

After a brief second, she jerked away, made a face. "Well, haven't you been through a lot, you poor dear. You've been dragged through the coals, that much is certain." She tapped a bejeweled finger against her red-painted lip, and asked, "Your parents?"

Sam tilted his head in puzzlement. The question was definitely a first—no one had ever asked him about family. "Humans called my mother Kitrina, but Seli-enkitri-Dor was her pack name."

She smiled. " Seli-enkitri-Dor. Lovely... _golden moon on a midnight lake."_

Sam was startled that she knew, but Dean just rolled his eyes. "Of course, she knows, Ro knows everything, especially things not her damn business."

The witch just laughed, a carefully modulated little peal of amusement. She leaned forward, incidentally giving Sam a clearer look at her decolletage, and squeezed his bicep gently. "Oh, my dear—you don't get where I am by going alone, you know. Now. What is your true name?"

Sam dropped his head and growled. "Sam is my only name. My mother was the one who gave it to me."

"Oh! Are you a hybrid, then?"

Sam lifted his lip, his teeth pricking as they went sharper—felt a shivery flutter coil through his gut. "A freak among freaks. Not even the monsters want me. Human father, some john of Seli's pupped her and left her without a thought. For some reason she didn't kill me...lucky me," he laughed sourly.

"Ah, that's what I felt there. No father that you knew. But a familiar air about you…" she narrowed her eyes at Dean and licked her lip again. "Very familiar…"

"Um, excuse me," Dean interrupted. "Favors?" The long-suffering tone he was going for was marred by the square of brown cake he was stuffing into his face. Sam watched him lick smears of chocolate from his lips, and bit down a whimper. He hated what Dean did to him...it was unfair, it really was. He also wondered just what the hell kind of favor Rowena owed him that he had the balls to eat her _chocolate?_ Like fucking gold, that stuff….

"Aye, I do owe you quite a large one," Rowena replied, deftly moving the cakes out of Dean's reach, settling it on the shelf behind her, between a dusty copper kettle and what looked like...Sam squinted...a dried...face?

"What is it you need, dear boy?" she asked, dusting off her hands and smiling wide. 

Dean shook his head. "Yeah, yeah. Sam, take your shirt off, " he said and the sparkle in Rowena's eyes went up several notches. "No, not for that!" he barked.

Sam and Rowena stared at each other, and then back to Dean. Sam and the witch both asked, "What for?" 

"Damn it, Sam—just turn around so she can see your damn neck!" 

Sam spun, yanked his shirt off. What the hell—if the witch wanted payment in flesh, he could do that. Dean was kind of annoying about the whole fucking thing, he just didn't get that Sam was fine with whatever. His thoughts were derailed by the witch's hiss of sympathy, pity, something like that. She took a step back, an elegantly painted hand going to her mouth. 

"Oh my, that's a very nasty piece of work. How long has it been on you—and those bits under the skin, how long?"

"Uhmm..." Sam thought, trying to remember. "I think...maybe four?"

"Four years!" she exclaimed. "That's a long time to have something like that polluting you." She shook her head sadly. "It's going to take some time to undo, and it's probably going to be painful. Ach, why lie? It's going to be very painful."

"Uhm...I meant since I was four years old…."

=@=

Sam sat in the deep sill of one of the cottage's front windows, lazily enjoying the sun pouring through the spotless glass, thoroughly entertained by watching Dean and the witch arguing in the garden. Nice garden, he thought idly, as the two of them went at it, toe to toe. 

The witch—Rowena—had moved on from describing Dean's sex habits— _rat fucker, hunh_ —and his inbred parentage, to explaining just how much it was going to hurt Sam, how unsure she was what would even happen at the end, if what she had would kill or a cure. Whether he'd even be able to shift after all this time. Sam could tell that for some reason her concern was genuine, and that was...surprising.

As for changing, he knew he'd been able to do it once. The memories of changing were blurry, and he mostly remembered being taught _not_ to. Remembered Seli catching him when he was about to, and punishing him for it. He'd fully shifted a time or two, but those memories were mostly impressions; of smells and tastes and warm sun, of something sleek and black rushing past him. Feeling happy. 

He remembered the time he'd tried to change to escape those first humans who'd owned him; it had been the last time he'd done so. Here too, he basically only remembered vivid smells, light—maybe a fire—and being caught, then beaten for so long it took him weeks to recover. They'd stomped one of hs kneecaps over and over, until it was a pulpy mess. Wasn't sure it'd come back together, but it did. 

When he could finally walk again, they'd taken him to a sorcerer, who'd done the thing, the whatever it was that locked his beast into this cage of a human body.

And now here was Dean, practically a stranger, wanting to change that for him. Sam shook his head. Dean was so naive. He probably thought Sam would be so grateful that he'd throw himself whole-hardheartedly into hunting full time with Dean, being his "partner." 

No, if Sam survived, and if he could change into...whatever form he had, he'd run as far and as fast as he was able. Dean probably thought of himself as a good guy, but there was something deadly and wrong about him lurking under that _I'm a good old boy_ surface, and Sam was afraid of it.

=@=

**Dean**

"All right, Samuel—"

"Not my name," Sam growled. "Sam's not short for anything, Seli just gave it to me because she had to call me something." He hesitated and then said, like confessing to something humiliating, "She said...it came from a book. Fairy tales or something, some guy who wanted people to live with him in some magic house in the sky. I don't know. She didn't teach me to read. Didn't get a chance."

Rowena said nothing, just fixed Sam with an intense gaze, then turned to Dean, with her chin tilted back and a glare that could cut diamonds.

Dean stared back, his eyes full of, "What?" He had no idea what or how he was supposed to respond to that. Sam had it tough, was stolen from his mom, couldn't read—there were a hell of a lot of people out there these days who couldn't read, didn't have time when all their day was spent trying to stay alive. 

Rowena huffed and turned away. "Now, Sam, this is going to be rather painful, as I said. Don't think I'm underplaying this. I'm going to have to cut open your neck, dig out those silver slugs—thankfully they're not too deeply implanted as far as I can tell. Then, I have to break the brands and the spell work around them. Thankfully, the spell work is pedestrian; goodness, the sorcerer basically just crayoned a stop sign on you. Hack." 

Sam's eyes rolled like a terrified horse. "It hurt a lot, and he fucked me while he did it. Do you have to?"

"Gods, no," she said, horrified. "Not that I would turn an offer down, heavens no, but this...thing….doesn't require that. No wonder it stinks to high heaven. He was a pervert, and a sadist. If he hurt you, he did it on purpose and now I'm stuck with having to hurt you again. Poor boy." She patted his hand, her face gone soft. Turned to Dean, and once again, her expression was the sharp edge of an ax. 

"Can you support him while this happens? If not, get me that bottle of Glenlivet, and get out."

"Can't I do both and stay?" Dean asked. He knew Glenlivet, it was Name Brand Booze, but better. He wouldn't mind getting reacquainted. He figured that was probably not the take he was supposed to have now. "Yeah, all right, where should I be?"

Rowena arranged Sam face down on a long, sheet-covered table. "Like this, love, hang your arms down—Dean will hold your hands, and you squeeze him, hang onto him. Concentrate on Dean's hands, concentrate on his fingers, concentrate on his knuckles, feel the scars on them, feel the tendons…" 

She droned on and on, until both Dean and Sam were drifting away from the small, neat room, the white walls and dark wooden beams. As she spoke, the flames of candles set around them perfumed the air and tinted it gold; leaping and fluttering in time with the musical lilt her voice took on. 

"Hold on," she murmured, and the first cut ripped through Sam, bringing him out of the trance he'd fallen into, but he dropped back just as quickly when the pain stopped. Again, rise and fall. And then...Dean brought up both hands, taking Sam's and yelling "Eyes on me, eyes on me, Sam!"

The scream ripping through the room stuttered as Sam obeyed Dean. He couldn't stop, but Sam gripped his hands so hard that Dean's eyes watered with the pain. He didn't try to pull away, he kept talking to Sam while Rowena cut through the cysts grown around the cast silver runes. It was horrible; he could hear Sam's flesh reluctantly let go of the silver. He could see what looked like a small amount of pus and black blood ooze out of the holes left behind, before Sam finally collapsed against the table, his grip on Dean's hands loosening. 

Dean heard Rowena call his name, and her eyes were deeply sympathetic as she held up a jug of clear fluid...holy water. She inclined her head towards Sam, and Dean wrapped his hand around the back of Sam's head. His eyes went wet again with the anticipation of Sam's pain. He barely knew Sam, and yet already it hurt him when Sam hurt. "Sam," he whispered, "This is the part where it gets really bad, okay?" 

"Okay," Sam said, biting his lip. He dropped his head, and Dean scooted closer, nudging Sam until his head rested against Dean's chest, and nodded. 

Rowena poured, and Sam arched against the pain. Steam rose up like smoke from a fire, and blood welled and ran black at first, then lighter and lighter until it ran red, then finally pink as the holy water ran out.

Sam screamed the whole time, snot and tears coating the front of Dean's shirt as he bucked against Dean's hold. He tried to keep a firm grip, while also trying not to make Sam feel trapped—more trapped than he was. He looked up and caught sight of Rowena, her eyes glowing briefly purple as she snapped something, not Enochian or Greek or Latin, something rich and...ancient, that was the feeling he got. She raised an iron knife, leaf-shaped, tiny, no bigger than her littlest finger, and slashed at the tattoo between Sam's shoulder blades, the one that Dean had earlier cut through. _Between the two of us, we've shredded this kid's back,_ was the crazy thought that flashed through Dean's mind. He pulled Sam closer, murmuring whatever came to his mind into Sam's ear, doing his poor best to comfort the kid, but it seemed to help. Sam finally dropped, muscles loose, and Dean's hands were all that was holding his head up. 

Without even thinking about it, Dean kissed the crown of Sam's head, pressed a few quick pecks into the thick, chestnut hair. "Fuck," Dean whispered, "Ro, he's passed out, I think."

"Good. Put him on the couch in my bedroom—he'll fit," she said," squashing any disagreement Dean might have had. "Make sure he's on his front."

"Hey, I'm not an idiot," Dean snapped, and Rowena rolled her eyes at him.

"That's entirely debatable," she snapped, and Dean decided to shut the hell up, because the last thing they needed was a fight, with him possibly pulling a witch-bullet loaded Baby out, and waving her around and then Rowena flinging hedge-witch stuff about because she'd told him once that he wasn't worth her elegant style of magic. Then usually, they'd end up fucking, but somehow, with Sammy laying up passed out in her room and the place still smelling like his blood...nah. That wasn't happening, not today. Not with him having to take care of Sam. 

=@=

Sam woke up hours later, having slept long enough for Dean and Rowena to prepare and eat lunch, then dinner, than a snack, and finally, stare at each other across her thick, old oak kitchen table, drinking beer that an admirer made for her and contemplating a handjob—"I mean, it's not really sex, right?" Dean muttered and Rowena scoffed. "You are _such_ an idiot," when Sam woke up all at once, roaring at the top of his lungs. 

"Shit!" Rowena jumped away from the table and plunged through the strings of beads hanging in her bedroom doorway, Dean right on her heels. 

Sam lay on the floor, blinking owlishly, looking around like he'd just regained his eyesight after being blind for a long, long time. "Pain's _gone._ It's. Wow. It's, I don't know, like...things are brighter."

Rowena nodded. "It's possible that the silver dulled your senses. What's more important is, now you should be able to change to whatever form you hold."

"Ah," Dean, "Dog, right? Skinwalkers shift to dogs, my dad said."

"That's because he was a man of limited imagination. Skinwalkers can have any kind of beast. Dog, wolves, bears—elephants," she chuckled. "It's partly cultural, partly convenient." She stared at Sam, mouth pursed into a little moue of thought. "Let's go outside. I mean I highly doubt there'll be any elephants appearing here, but one never knows. An ox, a stag, a moose…" She shrugged. 

Sam dragged himself up off the floor, shying away from Dean's attempt to help him, and staggered out to the wide, green lawn at the rear of Rowena's house. 

Dean stayed on the porch as Rowena and Sam made their way out into the middle of the green space. From his perch on the porch railing, he watched Sam take deep breaths as Rowena talked to him, watched the kid become more and more agitated until finally he threw his head back and screamed, "Leave me alone!"

He folded over and dropped to the ground, burying his hands in the thick green blades. 

Ro came back to Dean and said, "Either...what I suspected is true, that he's lost the ability to shift, or…" she sighed. "Maybe, one day, if—when—the damage done to him heals, his beast will out. Sometimes what holds us back is a matter of the mind, not the body. The poor thing has had an awful time of it."

"I'm shocked to see you so concerned over someone who can't pay you back in some way." 

Rowena fixed Dean with that intense stare of hers, and frowned. "If you were in any way important to me, that would have hurt," she said and swept past him into the house. She turned at the doorway and said, "We're even. Snow is coming into the pass. You should get a move on, so as not to be trapped on the road." 

The door shut with a decisive _click_ and Dean dropped his head. Later, he'd feel crappy about being so stupid later; right now, he had to take care of Sam. 

He got Sam back in the truck, his weird ass blanket—a pink monstrosity made for a little girl, looked like—tucked around him, with one of Dean's thrown on top as well. Before they took off, he opened the MoL bag, and took one of the hex bags Lou had made for Bobby. "Sorry, old man, but I fucked up and I gotta make amends. You'll understand." 

He pulled over at the gate at the end of her lane, next to a box nailed to a pole. He took a few seconds to tuck the little bag inside. He closed the box and spoke a quick little locking spell Bobby had hounded him to memorize; it was something she' d be able to break with a snap of her fingers, but not a casual, nosy passer-by. He felt a little bit better about himself then.

He jumped into the cab and patted Lucille's worn, sun-faded dash. "Here we go, girl. Jeezus willing, Sioux Falls is the next stop."

=@=

"It's going to take us two days to reach the pass, and then another day before we hit the MoL base. After that, well, we'll check in with my family and then you can decide what you want to do. Me, I'll have ta explain why my mail bag's not empty, but I figure getting us safe counts for more. To me, anyway." Dean snickered softly, then shuffled down into his coat, idly contemplating getting up and getting into the truck. But the fire felt good, and he had a nice buzz, and the down coat he was wearing wasn't going to let him freeze to death. He adjusted the scarf around his chin and nose, and just let the music take him; a song Dad played often late at night...singing along, drinking hooch. He remembered how he'd always laid still, pretending to sleep, so he could hear his dad sing. It was melancholy, but not a hurting kind of sad. [Atlantis](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iU9YGJDXX6A) _...I'll always come back to you..._

He watched Sam through slowly lowering eyes, watched him until he just couldn't keep his eyes open anymore. 

=@=

Sam nodded along to whatever it was that Dean mumbled, figuring that after Dean fell asleep, he'd light out. He wasn't about to end up under a mole's scalpel, like old Ugly had talked about at some length. Sam knew he was a rarity, mixes usually didn't survive. If they didn't die on their own, the pack would see to it. If the Men didn't take him apart to see how he worked, he'd end up in somebody's zoo or worse. When he'd been a kid, he'd seen people with pet monsters: neutered, spelled, chained—whatever it took to make them safe. Before being "rescued', nobody had known he was a mongrel; now two people knew and his life was in the hands of one of them. Well, screw that, after a lifetime of being a slave, he was finally taking his life into his own hands. Despite being broken and stupid and poor, he was free.

That had to count for something, right?

Sam tapped a one-two-three rhythm out on his knee, as he waited for Dean to slip deeper and deeper into sleep. The music tape he played was now hissing quietly to itself. He reached over and pushed the button he'd seen Dean push to make it work. It clicked and went silent. Good. He didn't want the music tape to get damaged. Dean seemed to like it a lot.

Sam got up quietly, grabbing his few things to roll into his blanket, grabbed an extra one to toss over Dean. He laid it out over Dean and then leaned down to touch the amulet around Dean's neck. That was the last thing he'd worked for...well, wasn't really work, but still...he patted it carefully and made a move to head out past the dimming fire. 

"Hey, where ya goin'?" He looked back and Dean was leaning up on one elbow, his face soft, confused, and about a dozen lifetimes younger. He blinked, and suddenly his eyes went wide, the pupils huge in the dim light and fuck if he didn't look like a little lost pup, damn it, Sam cursed to himself. 

"I'm...I'm…" He shrugged, dropped his blanket. "Nowhere. Gonna take a piss. Be right back."

Dean was struggling upright, caught in the blanket. He seemed firmly stuck in pup-mode, or something. At any rate, it was pinging some almost dead sense of protectiveness Sam could have sworn didn't exist in him. 

"Wait," Dean muttered, flailing around in the blanket, and Sam snapped. 

"What the fuck for? Are you gonna hold my dick for me?"

Dean deflated, he dropped his eyes, those soft lips going even softer. He huffed, swiped a hand across his forehead, skimming ragged bits of hair back, and Sam just hated the way it made him look. The guy was not a fucking pup, he was not fucking pack or fuckin' _anything_ to him—

"Just." Dean huffed, and laid back down. "Don't leave, okay?"

Sam wouldn't have heard him if his hearing was on par with a regular human's. He had a feeling he was meant to hear that, though. He bet Dean just couldn't bring himself to say it louder, afraid of being shot down, or worse, ignored. 

Well. 

Sam shrugged again, picked up his blanket, and dropped it next to Dean. He shook it out, turned it so the strawberries were in the front and the little girl in the big baggy hat was next to his skin. "Go back to sleep, Dean."

"Thought you had to piss?"

"Don't fucking worry about my bladder, okay?"

"Bitch." 

"What the fuck ever, jerk-off." Sam snorted, but was smiling as he went to sleep; felt like he could hear Dean's smile in his voice.

  
phoenix1966

[Chapter six](https://askellington.livejournal.com/65416.html)


	7. Chapter 7

**Sam**

After that night, Sam slowly came to think that he might be able to trust Dean, pretty sure that he wasn't going to suddenly change his mind and bend Sam over, or throw a collar or a chain on him. After all, Dean had broken the last magical chain Sam had had on him. That had to count for...a lot, really. No point in him doing that if he planned on making Sam a slave again—wouldn't make sense. Woulda been the loss of a favor from a powerful witch, and Sam didn't think Dean was the kind of guy to throw something valuable away. 

Not that Sam was about to fling himself wholeheartedly at the human—there was still something about him that Sam couldn't figure out. He got a sense of, well, not wrongness...not exactly, not with the way his scent made Sam feel so good. It was...Sam shrugged. Too good?  
And what the fuck was that all about anyway? What made him want this stranger's—this human's—smell all over him? 

Sam huffed, doubly annoyed when he realized he'd been mouthing the collar of the flannel he wore—one that he'd fished out of Dean's laundry. He'd have to think about this crazy shit some other time. Right now, all his body strength was being used to keep his grip on the dash. The power of his mind—and right at this moment no one could tell him it wasn't possible—was being used the to keep the damn rust-bucket of a truck on the road, since its crazy ass driver was doing a shit job of it. 

Sam whined, high in his throat. He could barely see anything—each window was a roiling curtain of white; wet, fat snowflakes smashing into the glass like they were trying to break through. They had well and truly run into the blizzard that had been Dean's fear the whole time they drove into the mountains.

Making it all even more exciting was his loco new...whatever the hell Dean was to him. Asshole was all over the road, vacillating between screaming curses, laughing wildly, and demanding Sam stop hitting the invisible brakes, which Sam would do if he knew what the fuck that meant. Dean was loco as bed bugs. Sam only knew that every time the damn truck slewed crazily across the road, he couldn't help but press both feet into the footwell and claw at the dashboard, howling inner prayers to a goddess he only barely remembered. 

"Oh my JeezusKris—hold on, fuck!" Lucille lurched and skidded, but plowed on in the general direction Dean was pushing her through; he let out a panicked howl of a laugh. "Whoa. Holy fuck, that was close!" 

Sam prayed that he made it to the end of this hell ride intact, so he could take Dean apart in tiny, little, greasy bits.

They were back on the road again, or Sam hoped they were—they weren't driving through a hail of snapped off branches anymore so that was probably a good sign. He peered through the windshield, looking for more signs they were going to live—but, like the last few miles, the world was barely visible through the curtain of white outside. By the weird, blueish-light filling the cab, he could see that Dean's knuckles were milk-white, his bones looking like they were about to pop through the skin. Not an encouraging sight.

"Don't you have anything to get us through this?" Sam asked. "Like a location spell, or a protection against the elements, or—"

"Well, I don't know," Dean shouted. "Let me just rustle through my handy-dandy box-o-magic an' see if I can whip something up right the fuck now. 'Cause you know in this Jeez-forsaken blizzard it'll take more than some damn hedge-magic location spell to _get the fuck through this fucking white hell on earth, yeah?"_

"Jeezus. I was only asking a question, no need to bite my head off." 

"Saa-am—oh no, don't you dare fucking pout over there, I need your eyes on the road too, for Jeez sake."

Fucking obnoxious, that's what Dean was. "Fuckever." Sam snarled under his breath, "You're as bad as Shit-For-Brains," because screw Dean and his high-and-mighty attitude.

 _Crack!_

Dean's slammed his hand down on the wheel, and Sam jumped like he'd been hit with one of Fuckface's silver-banded switches. For a hot moment, he was terrified, before the rage took over—like always. 

"Damn it, Sam, how the fuck did you survive with an attitude like yours? You're the most smart-mouthed, mean little— _big_ —so'n'so I've ever met, and I've met some real shitheads!"

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, bit his lips to seal them too. _Don't,_ he warned himself. _Shut up shut up shut up. There's a fucking blizzard going on out there and no place to go to if he tosses you out._

Sam lasted almost a full minute before exploding.

"Attitude? Screw you! When I tried to be 'good', I got beat half to death." He sneered so hard at 'good', that Dean reared back a little, sending the truck to fishtailing again. Sam grabbed at the dash, but went on yelling. "Got beat for trying, and beat when I stopped. So why should I—" Sam stopped, his heart slamming against his ribs with fear as well as rage, but for once in his life, he was telling the truth. Hell, he was screwed anyway. "Fuck them, fuck em all! If I could, I'd hunt down every single one that hurt me an' _kill_ them."

Sam sat back, statue-still, silent, afraid to even blink. He'd just unleashed a lifetime of hate and fear on the guy who held his life in his hands. He should just bend his neck and let Dean finish him off right here. The silence in the cab was so complete, he could feel it press against his eardrums, and for the first time in his crazy-ass life, he wondered if maybe he'd pushed a final inch too far.

Yeah, but...maybe Dean was too soft to kill him. He'd had chance and reason to kill Shit-For-Brains and his buddies, but he hadn't done it.

Then again, he'd gone after the vamps like it was a WinterDay's Ending dance, blood-covered and grinning from ear to ear, whooping whenever he sent a vamp head flying. Killing—he was damn good at it, and loved it, too. 

Jeez above. Sam was screwed like a virgin in a whorehouse.

The cab was still silent; when Dean moved his hand and his knuckles cracked, it sounded like gunshot. Dean licked his lips and said, "Look…"

Sam waited, fists wound tight in his blanket to the point of pain, wondering if Dean would at least give him matches or some food before tossing him out on the road—

"I'm an idiot sometimes, okay? Haven't you twigged to that yet? I get pissed off fast—get over just as fast, though. I got this problem of speaking first and thinkin' later, and this bad habit of teasing the hell out of people I like, yeah. My dad used to say it was a sign of immaturity." Dean shrugged. "Bobby, he just says I was always a snot-nosed little shit, and laughs. Anyway. I'm sorry. You're not mean and you don't have a crappy attitude."

They drove on a little farther, the silence still sitting on them like a heavy blanket. Sam had never had anyone apologize outside of, _"I'm sorry that you make me do this to you."_ ande wasn't sure how to process a real apology. It didn't matter too much, because a few seconds later Dean started laughing. 

"Oh, who the fuck am I kidding—you're mean as hell, with the _worst_ attitude ever...but I kinda dig it." 

Sam stared at the loco in the seat next to him, watching Dean giggle quietly, then returned to staring out at the white wall of death ahead of them. He rested a hand over his chin, fingers curved over his mouth to hide the damn smile he couldn't hold in. _Pretty-ass bastard._

  
Phoenix1966

**Dean**

The solid white nothingness finally began to give way. Lucillle's headlights picked out tall, black shadows of evergreens lining the roadside —proof that they were actually on the road. Dean hadn't been too sure for a while there. But now, the snow cleared enough for him to make out the darker shape of mountains in the distance. With any luck, it that meant the snowstorm was finally letting up. He crossed his fingers, in his mind, because right now, all fingers were wrapped in a death grip on the wheel, praying Lucille loved him enough not to kill him, or the defenseless kid next to him. Her steady, rumbling passage over the snowy roads felt like she was trying to reassure him that she did. 

He turned down the tape he'd cranked up to kill the tense silence, [Riders On The Storm](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aZT_OxPRmSw), Morrison just seemed right at the moment. He flicked a glance at Sam, ram-rod straight in his seat and still pumping his non-existent brakes. "If it helps, we're not just joyriding to a possible death here—somewhere along this road there're supposed to be cabins—emergency stopping places for the Menaletters crew. I don't know if they built them or took 'em over, but they're out here to be used in emergencies and we're gonna snag one. For what looks like the entire damn winter, shit."

"What? If that's the case, we passed cabins back there," Sam jerked a thumb behind him. "Did you not see them? They were off the side about a half-hour back. Why didn't you tell me?" 

Dean shook his head. "Those were regular cabins, for rangers, unaffiliated hunters, and average fools caught flat-footed. The MoL cabins—only agents like me or supers like you will see them."

"You Men of Letters people are really weird, you know that? It's like you're some kind of, I don't know, stupid secret club or something. Like everything's some stupid kind of pup game for y'all."

"Can't argue when you're right." Dean grinned. Sam had just described the exact way he felt about those guys—hoity-toity, holier-than-thou, stuck up, dress-wearing, drama-playing yahoos. Most of them, anyway. His little chapter house family were the only moles he'd met that didn't make him want to snap his foot off in their asses. And it wasn't just because Bobby and Missouri were practically mom and dad to him; they ran a tight, no-bullshit ship where advancement and knowledge came of merit, not who your damn daddy was.

=@=  
They'd been on the road for hours, and every bit of that time was spent whole body-focused on getting them through safely. Dean poked along through Snow Hell as steady as he could, any relief he'd felt at exiting the white-out erased by the increasing slickness of the road—terrified that at any moment, Lucille's wheels were gonna hit debris, or rocks, or ice under the snow, and send them over the edge, or into a tree or—Dean blinked. _Reign it in, Nellie, before you do turn Lucille into your coffin…._

Finally the snow began to lighten up for real, and he was somewhat sure the outcropping of rock they were taking a wide turn around was familiar. He fished around in the glove box, cursing when he felt Lucille slowly slide sideways—"Fuck, I hate snow!"—before finding a muddy, square-cut gem. He got Lucille back under control as he slapped the gem onto the dash. A few whispered words, and it stuck like he'd glued it there. At Sam's cocked eyebrow he muttered, "It'll glow when one of those cabins is nearby."

"Oh. That's handy. Does it do anything else?"

"Don't know. Never used it 'fore. Came with the radio-box, wrapped in a piece of paper. Said what it was and what spell to use. Hope it works." Dean answered him short and sharp, because Jeezus, couldn't the kid see he needed every brain cell trained on the strip of white death in front of them, damn it?

"What? Why would you trust it, then?" 

Dean used a precious second to glance at the kid—Sam looked appalled, pissed off, and definitely worried. Damn it!

"No, Sammy, it's fine, really. Look, those guys count on me to move their stuff around okay? They know I'm not gonna screw them, they trust me. So I trust they're not gonna give me bum stuff. Don't you worry. I'm gonna take care of you." 

Okay, he definitely expected Sam to scoff, roll his eyes and do that thing he did with his forehead and the corners of his mouth...but no. He actually looked like he believed Dean would take care of him. Of course he'd take care of the kid. He knew right at that moment, he might possibly punch a bear in the face for Sam. Or set a wendigo on fire. He turned his head, aimed a big smile at Sam and then, waggled his eyebrows. He couldn't help it, even if it was dangerous as hell taking his eyes off the road. 

It was worth it when Sam finally did roll his eyes—because there was some warmth behind the scoff, and then there was that little blush, man. Dean shook his head at himself. Whatever was happening in his brain regarding Sam, it was kind of scary. And he hated that he liked it too. A branch above them took the few seconds that Dean was distracted to dump its load of snow on them. It hit the windshield and Dean shouted—he was too manly to scream—and fought Lucille out of another hair-raising slew about the road. 

"Fuckfuckfuckfuck—" The scream—shout—was followed by the stupid nervous laughter he always spouted when he was terrified. That kinda shit got his ass in trouble too many times when he was a kid. Dad could be a cranky, old fart when they were on the hunt….

Next to him, Sam had both hands clawing the dash like they were trying to dig in. If he'd been a cat, his hair would have been standing up all over. He flicked a look at him and hissed, "Jeezus _Kris,_ you need to chill out, man. You're gonna have a heart attack before we even get to the cabins."

"Shut up," Dean muttered, a little embarrassed, but not that much—anyone who was human and/or didn't have the nerves of steel that apparently his passenger did, would have been sensibly worried. 

Damn. He wasn't cutting much of an impressive figure in front of Sam.

Sam chuckled as if, Jeez forbid, he could read Dean's mind. He smiled at him—small, tight, but real, and said, "You know...our contract's still in effect, even if we get trapped up here all winter and you don't get paid. We can just, you know," Sam made a _checking a box_ motion with his hand. "I don't mind. You deserve it if you get us to this cabin alive."

it took Dean a few long seconds before he got what the kid was saying—the hell? "What fucking contract do you think we made, Sam?" Dean asked, but then the gem glittered, purplish lights flickering deep inside it before it suddenly began gleaming like a violet campfire. "Whoa, finally! There's a cabin in the clearing up ahead—"

He gentled Lucille off the road, and carefully picked his way towards where he hoped a driveway was. Her wheels screeched and whirred as they humped down what appeared to be a narrow lane. Once it leveled and the ride became a bit smoother, Dean continued, "Don't think we're not gonna follow up on that thought the moment we're settled." 

"Okay, sure," Sam murmured, looking confused, before his attention was drawn to the bare, open space in front of them. "Is it close? Don't smell anything—are you getting out?"

"Yeah, you can help me get the bags out when we park—and grab your blanky." 

"Fuck you," Sam said distractedly, like he was just playing to what Dean expected. He looked around, chewing on his lip like he'd rather bite it off first before asking Dean what was up. Dean enjoyed his momentary bit of triumph—flapping the Unflappable felt damn good.

He pulled Lucille up into a spot under a small copse of trees whose branches met overhead to create a little arbor. He brought her to a stop, and her engine died with a sound Dean knew was gratitude. He fished the gem off the dash and tossed it back in the glove box, snorting when Sam shook his head. The gem was just a tool, not some big deal treasure. 

He reached into the gray MoL bag, and pulled out a jar filled with orange powder, worried a bit about going through the stuff he was supposed to deliver to them, but hey, they owed him. He scooped out a pinch of the powder, well aware of Sam's eyes on him, and hopped out of the truck, walking a ways across the snow. He made a bit of a show of pouring a perfect little heap into the palm of his hand, solemnly intoning a few words of Latin that sounded impressive but basically boiled down to _yo, looky here!_ and blew the powder across the flat area of snow. 

The air shimmered and glittered—for a few seconds it looked as if a flock of golden butterflies were swirling and dancing in the empty space. Sam gasped as the outline of a building became visible, gold sparkles rushing in to fill it out. Dean turned to Sam, with a wink and a smirk, he clicked his fingers and there in the clearing was a cabin, a good sized building, homey looking, well built—typical Menaletters overkill. Not that he was going to complain—it was damn good to be off the road, and out of the truck, bless her rust-scabbed soul. 

He picked up the bags and said, "Come on, Sammy, I'm hungry and tired and I need to take a piss."

Sam trailed him, dragging his blanket and one of the bags and looking at the cabin open-mouthed. "Dean...this is amazing."

"Right?" he said, forgetting to pretend like it was old hat to him. He freely admitted—to himself—that the place looked fantastic, especially after coming off a drive that had his heart in his throat most of the way. He hoped that it was stocked up, he could use a hot meal and a good drink—they both could. The snow began falling again, thicker and faster even than before, a clear sign to get a move on. "Come on, kid, let's get out of this shit."

Dean set his bags down inside the doorway and reached for the switch, waiting for light, warmth—nada. He flicked and flicked, muttering curses under his breath until finally, he slammed his fist against the wall in frustration. "Damn it."

"What?"Sam asked. 

"The magic that runs this place...it's dead."

"What? Magic doesn't go dead," Sam said. "I mean, it gets broken, but it doesn't fade—"

"Well, for some damn reason, the spells keeping the place going got broke. The hiding-spell was active, though...I don't know, maybe someone had a fit and screwed the maintenance spell…" Dean's attention switched to his duffle bag; he rummaged around until he found the wizard lamp.

With that lit, he scoped out the place; at first glance, the inside was just as impressive as the outside: peeled log walls, tall windows flanked by thick, velvety-looking curtains. A giant stone fireplace took up one whole wall of the main room, a fat couch sat in front of a counter that separated the sitting area from an open kitchen. It was rich, amazing—a page right out of the Before Times. Dean felt a swift stab of anger at the fucking Men of fucking Letters. It was _their_ fault no one had this anymore. The world would have been amazing, a safe, beautiful place of plenty for everyone, if not for those damn magic-fiddlers and their petty infighting that took a whole world down, unleashed disease that ripped his mom's lungs out of her chest...fuck. 

He blinked, vision going from focused on the past, to seeing the present. More to the point, the disgusting shape the cabin was in, clumps and drifts of dust coating everything. Seemed the last occupant had not cleaned a JeezDamn bit after themselves—trash shoved in the corners, used plates scattered everywhere. What looked like a pair of socks was tucked between the couch pillows, and those better not be fucking boxers, too. Not to mention it was fucking cold enough to freeze a yeti's balls.

Underlying the smell of dust and neglect and old socks, there was a faint scent of rot. Fucking hell, all they needed was for something to have died in the place. "Please don't let it be the asshole who left the joint like this," he muttered. With any luck, it was only rotten food, and not anything that he might have to salt and burn.

Well, regardless, they were here, inside from the snow, and first things first. Dean dropped his snow-covered shoes next to his bag inside the door; he could hear Sam doing the same. He turned around, about to share some venting over the shithole that they'd dropped into, but when he looked back, he bit his tongue, the look on Sam's face making him feel kinda like an asshole. 

While he'd been standing there pouting over the mess, Sam was looking around like he'd stumbled on Shanghai-La. The way his eyes shone, the wonder on his face, it was humbling. Dean swallowed, and planting his hands on his hips, took a deep breath and forced a big smile. "Well," he said brightly, maybe a shade too brightly, "I think we've got a win here."

"Yeah," Sam chirped. "I think so too." Sam was actually smiling, a wide and unmistakable grin, as he dropped his blanket right by the door ignoring the plume of dust that rose when he did. He made really quick work of unrolling the hideous pink rag, and rearranging his bits of clothing inside, folding over the top of the blanket so as to make a pillow. 

Dean stood there watching, wondering what the hell was going on, when the kid dropped to the floor with a pleased sigh and began to wrap what was left of the blanket around himself. 

_Okay, that's...what is that?_ Dean coughed, and asked, "Um...what the hell are you doing?" 

Sam's reaction was immediate, and so weird, that Dean reached out in some instinctual need to make it better. Sam, though, flinched away as if Dean was about to hit him. He paled, then flushed an angry red. "Yeah, yeah," he said, his voice a bitter growl. "Figures." 

In the blink of an eye, he'd rolled his blanket back up, shoved his feet in his ratty sneakers, and was halfway out the door before Dean's brain kicked in and he realized— _This boy was about to step the fuck back out in a blizzard!_

"Sam! Where the fuck are you going?"

"I get it, okay...can I sleep in the truck?" he asked, his face going even redder, his whole body curling over like he was trying to make himself invisible. 

_What the hell?_ He'd fucked up, but how? Dean hated whatever he'd done wrong this time. Sam wasn't supposed to curl up like he wanted to disappear, he was supposed to be fierce and sarcastic and fight the fuck _back—_

"No, you can't sleep in the truck!" Dean yelped. Why would Sam wanna sleep in the ass-freezing cold? "What the hell, dude—"

"Fine! I'll find a place. I thought…I'm a-an idiot, I really thought..." Sam's voice skipped on a shaky inhale. "Never mind…" He rubbed his arm over his face; Dean felt like someone stabbed him in the heart when he realized his tough, mouthy boy was actually trying to hide tears. 

Finally it hit him, like a two-by-four to his stupid, thick skull. The kid thought Dean was sending him _outside_ to sleep. In a killer blizzard that, okay, skinwalker, so it might not kill him, but damn it. Sam shouldn't expect something like that, he sure as hell shouldn't accept it.

"Sam, fucking hell, you're breaking my heart, get in here." He yanked Sam back inside and kicked the door shut. "Of course you're sleepin' in here with me, damn it."

Sam ripped his arm out of Dean's grip, and spat, "Yeah? And after you fuck me, then what? I get to sleep in the truck then?"

Dean threw his head back, staring upward with his arms wide. He shouted at the ceiling, "JeezusKris ona pony, I don't even believe in you and I'm begging you—make this hard-headed kid get I Really. Don't. Wanna _fuck him!_ And I don't want him _sleepin' out in the motherfucking cold!"_

He dropped his head and stared at Sam. "If I _order_ you to keep your ass to yourself, will you believe it's okay to sleep in the house?"

Sam stalked past him, his pink blanket wrapped up in his arms, headed for the stairs. "I'm not sleeping with you tonight."

"Or ever, thank you!" Dean shouted after him. "You must think your ass is made of gold or something!"

"Oh, like you're not gonna collect someday soon. And don't pretend you're not staring at my ass right now."

Dean glared at Sam's back as he stomped up the stairs. There better be more than one bedroom up there. And screw Sam, he was _not_ staring at his ass. Except now he totally was, _damn_ it. Well, screw Sam some more, he was a tits man, liked 'em high and firm and round, nice handfuls…

As he stood there watching Sam stomp up the stairs, ass swaying with each step, Dean's fingers curved in a cupping motion—he shook them out, hard when he realized what he was doing. 

He wanted to punch himself in the face. He was cursed, JeezDamn it, cursed! He stomped up the stairs after, heading for whichever room that Sam _hadn't_ claimed. 

=@=

There were two rooms at the top of the stairs, Jeezthank. They'd never make the whole night stuck together in one room—they'd end up killing each other or—or—damn it. How was this one skinny brat throwing his whole world out of kilter? 

He sighed, then laughed a little. Dad would be having a whole cow if he knew what this boy was doing to him. He'd never stand for it. Dean shook his head. Be rollin' in his grave right now if he had one.

The room was small and as filthy as the rest of the place was. The slob who'd been here before hadn't even changed the linens before leaving—the blankets were wrinkled, the pillow still dented with an imprint of the head of the douchewad who'd slept there. Was that a pile of socks on the floor…? 

"Gross, dude…" Dean made a face, and sighed. Well, he'd clear the place up in a bit—first he had to take a piss, and then he'd take care of the Menaletters business.

He'd been pleased to find out Douchebag hadn't screwed up the bathroom too. It had been clean, and well stocked, which was a nice touch. Snagging free soap was a guilty pleasure of his. Besides, it was MoL soap and stuff, he figured they owed him.

Back in the room Dean shoved his bag into the room's small closet. He'd put his stuff way later, after cleaning the dust and shit out of his room. He had serious biz to take care of now. 

Dean sat on the end of the bed, and debated getting out the radio and going through the rigmarole of setting it up, or just letting Ri, and probably Bobby, in his head as well..."Fuck." He was tired and didn't feel like messing around much—so, head it was. He knew he really didn't have to worry about them romping through his head, it was just the idea. That and sometimes, stuff leaked out unbidden, and he was really stressed..."Oh well." 

He dug through his kitbag for a little steel vial, uncapped it, and let a few drops of some really horrendous-tasting syrup fall on his tongue. 

He settled himself fully on the dusty bed, leaned back against the iron frame, closed his eyes and fell, not into sleep, and not exactly into trance. He was still aware of what was around him, but another place was overlaid on the real world now. He spoke a few words that would alert the mole he was looking for. 

A moment later, he was on a bed in snowbound cabin, and also sitting at a table in a sunny kitchen, with roses painted on the wall and cheerful yellow curtains fluttering in a warm breeze. A steaming cup appeared in front of him, and he took a sip. Coffee—pure, black, and smooth, the kind only the Men of Letters could get. 'Hey, Miz.'

_Missouri looked good, rested. Her hair curled in thick, shining waves loose around her face, a yellow and red scarf tied at her chin setting off her dark skin to perfection. Dean drank her in, her calm expression, her deep, warm eyes that could also be sharp as knives. She was beautiful—she was home to him. She smiled, and her lilting voice settled him the way it always did._

_'Hey, honey. You're stuck but good, hunh?'_

_'Yeah, drove right into a blizzard, but we'll be alright, I think. Me and Sam.'_

_She smiled over the rim of her cup. 'Uhm. You and Sam. You're doing well there?'_

_'Yeah, I can't complain.' And at that moment, to his horror, Sam wandered through the dreamkitchen, scratching his belly, clad only in shabby boxers and a smile. He passed through the scene, clutching a steaming bowl of porridge and ignoring the coffee drinkers, totally unaware of them, before disappearing into nothing. Missouri raised her eyebrows, eyes round and wide in amusement, before her face went soft with concern. '_

_'Dean…?'_

_'Miz. Don't want to talk about it.'_

_'Alright, sugar. Bobby wants to holler at you real quick. We won't expect you back until SpringDay. Boy…' she stopped and shook her head. 'Take care of yourself, y'hear? We love you.'_

_'I know. Love you too.'_

_Bobby walked into the scene out of some nebulous corner, and Dean was distracted by the movement. When he looked back across the table Miz was gone._

_'Son. You know what you're doin'?'_

_Dean didn't waste time trying to figure out what he meant—that dry question applied to Dean's whole life. 'Course not,' Dean laughed. 'When have I ever? Bringing you something from Luther.'_

_'Glad to hear it. Since you'll be out for while, go on and put the goods in a rosewood box if ya got one, bury it in clean soil if not.' He stopped and peered at Dean, his grizzled shade's glare just as intense as RealWorld Bobby's. 'Well, take care, and what Ri said. And look out for that 'walker.' Go to sleep.'_

Dean sat up, alert, but feeling a bit like he was waking up from a midday nap in which he'd slept too hard. He got up to strip the bed, and laid down on the bare mattress in his clothes. He'd deal with all the rest of this shit in the morning. Just before he drifted off, he wondered what exactly Bobby had meant about looking out for Sam.

_Wonder if Sammy does like porridge…._

**Sam**

_It was cold, a biting, searing cold that brought tears to his eyes, made his teeth grind. His body kept trying to change, his beast trying to come out, trying to help him through the freeze, but it couldn't. The last time he'd changed, the human who'd owned him then beat him so hard he was knocked out for days, then took him to someone who'd done that thing to him that Seli did with humans—he'd hated it—and then done something else to him that did something to the beast, made it hurt too bad to change from then on._

_Sam turned 'round and 'round in the corner where the porch met the house, pretending it blocked the wind, trying to pull the old jacket the human had given him tighter around his body. He managed to cover his head and if he pulled his legs up tight, his knees; if he burrowed into the snow like some dogs he'd seen, maybe it'd be warmer. He'd try if it got worse...and if the chain was long enough._

_At least the coat helped. So did the shiny, new shoes, even if they weren't boots, or even sneakers—the straps didn't really do much for holding them on, but they covered his toes at least, thank the AllMother. He wished this new owner let him wear something besides dresses; dresses weren't good, and they weren't warm at all._

_In a last bid to warm himself, Sam undid the pigtails they'd put his hair in and pulled the loose hair around his face, and then, not knowing what else to do, rocked back and forth, back and forth._

_He dreamed; what if he got off the chain, what if he could dig himself deeper in the snow, what if he had matches. What if Seli hadn't died, if if if...if he closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around himself, he could feel her again, feel her warmth, smell the good smell of her. He missed his ma so much. Sometimes he woke up forgetting she was dead, because she'd come to him in dreams and talked to him, sang and held him and fed him. Maybe he could dream that now, and never, ever wake up again…._

_The snow was coming down faster, piling up on him now, it clung to his hair and his lashes and it stuck to his face. It felt like he was breathing it in, there was so much of it. If he died, would he get hard and stiff so when they found him in the morning, he'd be like a board? Like the frozen cat he'd found once when he was working bait._

_He wondered if the humans would be mad at the waste of goods, or would they think it was funny?_

Sam woke up with a whine. He'd had a crappy nightmare all about sleeping outdoors in the cold, and so real that waking up in a soft bed with thick blankets on top of him was confusing. After a few moments, the memory of the night before came back, and he scrambled upright, looking around for Dean. There was no sign of him, and he didn't feel like he'd been fucked in his sleep, so good. A good start to the day. He'd been more or less sure that Dean wouldn't do that, but Sam had been mistaken before, and besides, he'd felt Dean staring at him last night. For a guy who claimed he didn't do other guys, he sure paid an awful lot of attention to Sam. 

Sam reluctantly left his warm blanket nest, growling at how freezing cold the floor was under his bare feet, and padded over to one of the windows in the room, set right under the slanted ceiling. He blew streamers of dust away from the panes, rubbed at the grime until he could look out. 

Outside, the world was a bit disorienting—there was nothing but white everywhere. Took a bit before his eyes adjusted and began to pick out features on the white plain. 

Nearly buried shrubs, little black pinpricks marking where they stood. A small circle of trees under which he could see a Lucille-shaped hulk. His hands were pressed against the cold glass, and looking out at all that snow, all he felt was a huge sense of relief, and something he couldn't really describe, not exactly safe, but better than he had been.

He dressed quickly, shivering since his clothes were ice-cold—he'd sleep with them tonight, if Dean hadn't changed his mind about Sam sleeping inside. Dressed, he made his way downstairs, following his nose to the smell of Dean.

"Hey, there you are. Finally stopped snowing and we're gonna have work to do. My girl's out there under a snowdrift, I wanna clear her out if we can. Scoped things out and from the looks of it, we're definitely stuck with each other for the whole WinterDay, dude."

Sam nodded—that much was obvious.

Dean stared for a bit, and when he got no further response, sighed. "Okay, not a morning person either. Good. Coffee." He shoved a cup at Sam and sat. "Fucking miracle there was some. What's left of food's on the counter, help yourself."

Sam sat frozen in indecision. What did that mean? Was he supposed to regulate himself, or did Dean really mean for him to help himself? Was it a test? Maybe it was a test. Probably was. Dean said he didn't want him, he didn't say that he wouldn't take his fun other ways. Some humans were like that.

He sat like that long enough for Dean to take notice, to look up from his breakfast and ask,"Aren't you hungry? Granted, it ain't shit, but it's food."

"Ye-es," Sam answered hesitantly, waiting for Dean to start laughing.

"Are you waiting for me to serve you? Because if you are, you'll be waiting a long time."

Sam sat there, chewing on his lip, watching Dean's mouth make interesting moves as he ate before he finally asked, "What can I have?"

"Whatever the hell you—oh."

Ah. There it went, Sam thought. The golden moment Dean's brain caught up with his mouth. 

"Oh. Oh man...go eat, dude. Eat what you want, no limits. I mean, on what's there, anyway. And dude, you gotta know, you're officially my partner now, so half of anything I got is yours."

Sam nodded, having stopped listening the moment Dean said to eat. Sam knew now Dean had a tendency to use a million words when a couple would do; he wasn't missing anything. Still as he neared the counter next to the stove, he kept his eyes on Dean just in case. Better prepared than sorry.

At the counter, he snatched up a piece of biscuit and wolfed it down, then another piece, before quickly filling a plate with eggs and smoked rabbit and shoveling it into his mouth as well. It was passable—the rabbit had been around a long time, canned, most likely, and the eggs were powdered. But there was salt and pepper in them, so okay.

Dean watched it all, his expression a mix of horror and amusement; Sam hastily swallowed and mumbled, "Thanks for the food."

"Nah, Sam, don't gotta thank me. That's what partners do."

Sam gulped down the last of the eggs and rabbit, and contemplated licking the plate. "Yeah, partners, you already told me, you share part of the bounty, I give sex—even-stevens."

"I do what now? I… fucking sweartaJeezusKris, talking to you is like dancing through a field of trap spells. What are we talking about now?"

"Where you told me that as long as you had mole backing, you could afford me." Sam wiped his mouth. Breathed deep and exhaled. "Look, I'm not complaining, see, this is the best deal I ever got. Like, I really thought that I'd end up salted and burned with some monster one night, or some crazy john would kill me. This is." He shook his head. "The best. And thanks. I'll try and be...less of a problem to you."

Dean rocked back from the table and looked Sam up and down, mouth pursed, eyes narrowed. The silence built, time slowed down. It was quiet, too damn quiet. Sam could hear snow creaking outside, ice cracking. 

Quiet was bad. 

Sam broke the crushing quiet with the first thing that came to mind, which was, "You really aren't like the rest of them. Why?" _Fuck all. Why didn't he just roll in ketchup and throw himself at a rugaru?_

But Dean wasn't angry, he just looked kind of sad. He shook his head, said, "I try not to be. I really don't own you, and you really are free to go, no strings, as soon as SpringDay thaw comes. I'm sorry life's been so shitty for you up to this point. I can't make it better, but I'm gonna try not to add to the shitfest it's been so far." 

Dean was rubbing the little horned icon hanging on his chest before dropping it with a sigh. "You know, I get having no say in your life—I'm not trying to compare myself to you at all, just sayin' when the decisions are your own, good or bad, it makes a difference. I'm sorry I didn't get that's what you were doing, y'know—before." He shrugged, gathered up their plates and dropped them in the sink and flicked the faucet on. "Great—at least the water's hot. Something must be working somewhere."

He wiped dust away from the rim of the sink, grimacing when water turned it to gray mud. "Yuck. Anyway...what you do is your business. Sex and...other stuff, yeah. It's your own business; I'm sorry if I was a bitch about any of it."

Sam stared at Dean's tense back, and since Dean couldn't see him, he smiled. Dean was an idiot, but credit to him, he was trying. Kinda flopping around in the dark, but trying. He got up and pushed Dean away from the dishes. "Let me. I'm used to this and watching you try and wash them things is giving me a headache."

=@=

The worry that they'd die of boredom during the winter disappeared under all they had to keep them busy. Dust was thick on everything, and maybe Dean was okay about sleeping in it, but Sam wasn't. He'd had enough of sleeping in filth, his whole life humans figured because he was a 'walker, it didn't matter if his bed was a trash heap or his food was rotten. Now he had his own room—a whole damn room that was his alone—and he was going to keep it the way he wanted. As for the rest of the place….

He coaxed Dean into beating the dust out of the beds and the linens, into cleaning the windows so they could see out, and also let some light into the rooms. 

They took inventory as they poked about the cabin, and came up with an odd assortment of goods—some really useful and some just head-scratchers. The living area held bookshelves stuffed to the brim.  
Dean said the books were about herbs and spells and healing, all useful—and then, the headscratchers: a book of ancient jokes, _Wits Vademecum,_ Dean said, and one on how to birth goats of which there were none around, one on something called crochet, and one on puppetry...weird. Tucked in between the books, Dean found a few boxes of things called games, but he complained about finding no cards. That was too bad, cards were something Sam actually knew. 

The refrigerator in the kitchen was cold, but empty except for a few jars of olives—Dean said despite the fact they looked like eyes, they were edible. Sam just nodded.

A closet on the ground floor held an assortment of coats and boots, all new, all different sizes. On the floor, under the coats, Sam made a find—a soft, green sweater, prettier than anything he'd ever owned save his strawberry blanket. He rubbed his cheek on it, since he was alone. But when he looked up, Dean was standing at the closet door, a look on his face like he'd just found a kitten. 

"I bet that would look really good on you," he said, then walked away without another word. 

Sam pulled it over his head, right over the t-shirt he was wearing, one of Dean's he'd jacked that morning. He sighed. Jeez, the sweater was as soft on his body as it felt to his cheek. It was just a little big, the neck was just a little large—it slipped a bit to the side—but that was nothing. It was clean, and had hardly any holes in it—and it made him feel good. He fell violently in love with it. 

"Mine," he whispered...he drew his hand down the front, lost in the feeling of how soft and how thick it was. He thought too, about Dean and how any other human would have claimed it first and snatched it from him. 

He went off to find Dean, who of course acted like a damn fool and whistled at him, made ridiculous goo-goo eyes at him—and then smiled. "Wow, Sam, your sweater looks really good on you." 

He pulled the neckline up over his chin, hiding his mouth, really wanting to pull it up over his head. He felt like such an idiot, but this moment was one of the best in his life. Even though Sam tried to hide, Dean seemed to get it. He turned away to give Sam a minute, but muttered low under his breath, "It really does suit you."

=@=

The stuff they found as they went through drawers and closets only convinced Sam that he was right, and the moles were weird as hell. A dresser drawer in Dean's room yielded a few pairs of underwear, a single toothbrush from the Before, wrapped in some crackly yellowed clear paper, and a doll—just a regular old pup's doll, not a claybody or a totem. Dean's verdict on that was, "Creepy."

In the dresser in the room Sam slept in, he found a thin, flat book, with smooth, shiny pages. It was filled with bright pictures, all of naked women trick-posing. After his initial wonder at such an odd object, Sam thought it boring, but Dean's verdict on that was, "Sweet!" Sam rolled hs eyes when Dean grabbed it out of his hands...and also felt a stupid stab of disappointment that he shrugged off best he could. 

A door in the kitchen wall opened to a room full of cabinets—a pantry, according to Dean. Some of the cabinets held nothing but bug-eaten, rotten food, some held canned foods and stuff in jars Dean said was edible, but he'd said that about the green eyeballs in the refrigerator, so….

He cursed a lot as they searched through the pantry, because he said the food gone to rot was a deliberate action. Sam could have told him that. Witches and sorcerers were dicks, and moles were just like them, no matter how they denied it. 

About halfway through their pantry inspection, Dean let out a small whoop of triumph. "Crackers," he called out, "and they're still fresh—damn, everything in this cabinet is fresh, I think. Come over here, give me your nose." 

Sam rolled his eyes, and came off the floor, where he'd been looking through the lower cabinets for glasses. He set the one in his hand next to a stack of cups and plates he'd found. He slinked over to where Dean sat, standing over him for a second, long enough to see Dean's eyes skate up his legs and definitely stop at his crotch. Definitely stare. The thought of Dean looking at him, at his dick, made him thick up. It'd be so easy to reach down, cup the back of his head, and grind a little against Dean's soft, plump—

"Sam?" 

_Fucking hell..._ "Wait." He scented the cabinet, got Dean's normal good smell, but now threaded through with a hint of arousal; he pushed that nugget of info aside, scented the air again. "Yeah, this one's spelled for sure. But nothing's in it."

"What are you talking? There's these great crackers, and looks like...apples, potatoes, some other vegetable things—boring. Here's some more of that canned rabbit—oh, hey, bacon. And jam. Good. Oh man—paydirt! Peanut butter."

Dean held a jar out to him which as far as Sam could see, was full of shit. Okay, no way would Dean want to eat actual shit...what the hell was it? Was it really edible? He sniffed cautiously when Dean cracked the lid and shoved the jar in his face. Sam huffed and jerked away—it smelled strong, weird.

Dean stuck a cracker in it, and swept it through the shit-colored paste. He held it out to Sam. "Seriously, this is good shit." 

Sam snorted at Dean's description, but trusted that Dean wasn't going to poison him. Sam let him thrust the cracker in his mouth, bit down.

His taste buds exploded. 

_Fuck_ those miserable shit-faced, puss-brained, cock-sucking bastards. Fuck them to hell and back. Fuck every single one of his fuckin' owners for never letting him have anything that tasted near this damn _good._ This was crazy, this was that fresh baked bread and more, this was, was...he smacked his lips and moaned. He didn't even have words for how good it was.

"You like?" Dean asked, grinning and eyebrows dancing, pleased with himself for making Sam melt down with the taste of this wonderful, sweet, salty, creamy, stuff. Sam snatched the jar, ready to stick a paw in and gulp it all down—oh, but when he finished it, oh no. Would he ever have a chance to taste it again?

He dropped to his knees and shoved Dean aside like a pup, looked into the cabinet. He almost cried. 

There were _jars_ of this magic stuff. "Dean…" His vioce came out low and gruff, roughened by emotion and dreadful hope….

Dean peered at him, then wrapped an arm around his shoulders and squeezed tightly. He let Sam go, giving him that weird, fond look again. Suddenly, he reached out, and brushing hair off Sam's face, shocked the hell out of Sam by following that with a kiss. Quick, dry, but definitely a kiss, popped on the middle of his forehead. 

Sam closed his eyes and felt the kiss. Didn't feel anything like when Fuckface, or any other john, touched him. It felt a bit like getting a kiss from Seli-ma, kind of warm and nice and...safe. He leaned into it for a moment before backing away. Dean ruffled his hair, and said, "It's all yours, kiddo. Every single jar. Enjoy."

 _"Thank you,"_ he said, sincerely meaning it from the bottom of his heart. _Thank you for everything._

  
phoenix1966


	8. Chapter 8

**Sam**

They'd been in the cabin for more than a week, and Dean still hadn't gotten any closer to finding out what was wrong with the maintenance spells, or why in some spots inside the cabin, the spell still seemed to be operative—like the odd cabinet in the kitchen, the refrigerator, and a freezer, not to mention their plentiful hot water. 

Sam was glad they had light in their bedrooms now when they wanted, thanks to Dean. He'd gone down into the cellar, hoping for a dirt floor so he could bury Bobby's hex bags for safekeeping. He lucked out there, and found useful stuff besides; a couple of shovels, plus the lamps they were using now. Dean said they were from way olden times in the Before, so probably they were meant for trade. The Before, whatever that was, had no meaning for Sam like it seemed to have for Dean. 'Before Times' was just a lot of noise to Sam.

It was nice though, that Dean's mood took a definite upswing after that. To him, finding tools also meant going out to rescue Lucille. Collecting the fatfuel, and the rest of Dean's equipment still in the truck was a plus. 

" After breakfast, let's take a run at digging my darlin' out, whataya say? Short hike through a little fluffy snow, and have her dug out by early afternoon." he said, watching Sam pull on a new pair of boots Dean had found in that same closet Sam found his green sweater in. Sam was surprised—and super-pleased—that they fit so well; he didn't have to pull up his toes or stuff rags in the tips or anything. He smiled as he laced them. "You have a good eye—these fit real good."

"Yeah, well, those are some boats you've got there, I just grabbed the biggest and hoped for the best. Figured if nothing fit, we'd make you some outta Lucille's tires."

"Fuck you," Sam drawled, because Dean giggling had become one of his favorite sounds. 

The slog out to the truck had taken more time than they'd thought for the short distance it was. Despite Dean's claim that the walk would be a piece of cake, plowing through the deep snow drifts was slow going. Plus Sam had been distracted by the snow—the way it glittered with the shifting light as they pushed through it, the hints of gold and blue from sun and sky….

Sam leaned on his shovel and looked around at what had looked like a white desert from his window—it was so different close up. And there was so much sound. Sam had expected that the woods were going to be that deep, cottony, quiet that came with heavy snow, but there was a near constant creak and squeak of thawing snow shifting, the sound of small animals scurrying through it, and occasionally a crash, like a big animal running somewhere deeper in the woods. 

Dean held his head up and listened too, before tossing a shovelful of snow to the side. He'd almost cleared Lucille's tires, and was slowing down a bit. Sam was impressed with how quickly Dean worked, Wet snow like this was heavy—frankly, he was doing the minimum, mostly pushing snow around and watching Dean sweat. Sam wondered if Dean sweated like that when he fucked...he smelled good sweating, more leather in his scent. Given a chance, Sam would make him sweat leather and honey for sure. Wonder what his come tasted like….

Dean derailed the direction Sam's thoughts were headed with a question. "So...have you given any thought to what your beast might be?"

Sam jerked—he hadn't thought about changing since those few awful hours at Rowena's cottage. He shrugged, feeling the empty, scarred spots at the top of his spine, the things that had kept him locked in this form for so long…he shuddered. Yeah, honestly, he'd thought about it some. He just had no idea what to do, how to rescue the beast. Whether after all these years, it'd be a good thing to do.

"Could be a stag, you know." Dean went on, a little out of breath from tossing snow. "A bear, maybe. You'd make a good bear. Tall, big paws. Or a fox, with those eyes. You're smart as hell, quick—" 

"Don't want to talk about it. Please," he added in a bid not to rile Dean, but Dean only nodded and pointed at Sam's shovel. 

"Taking a break. Try stepping up some, hunh?"

Dean put on a disgusting display when Lucille was finally dug out of her snowy bed. He got that 'soft-kitten' look on his face, and he made an embarrassing sight of himself by stroking her fender and _cooing,_ for Jeezsake, apologizing and promising to treat her like the lady she was. 

Sam watched from his perch inside her, feeling a little disgusted at a grown-man making such a huge, revolting fuss over a rusty pile of metal and rubber. He adjusted the neck of his sweater, just to be comfortable, not so that the curve of his collar bone showed...because that would mean he was jealous of a truck, and that was some stupid human stuff. 'Walkers had more sense. 

Of course, the fatfuel had gone solid and they'd need to warm it up, slowly, before they could use it. He told Dean they'd need to bring in more wood, too—there was little left of the meager pile of dry they'd been using in the big fireplace. Another reason why replacing the maintenance spell would be real handy—those bedrooms were fucking cold at night. Dean's Men of Letters had obviously depended on the spell to warm the upper floor, the idiots. Well, Dean's room had a small fireplace in it, so his bed was nice and cozy—Sam's room was colder than a root cellar in middle WinterDay.

He followed Dean back to the cabin, slogging along keeping to the path they'd made walking out, a jerrican and one of Dean's bags thumping his back in rhythm with his steps. He watched Dean plowing through drifting snow ahead of him, and idly wondered if he could talk Dean into sharing the room with him; maybe if he promised to sleep on the floor. Sam snorted. Right. If he got his ass in Dean's room, the last thing he was doing was sleeping on the floor. Whether Dean liked it or not. 

He grinned to himself. He'd get there eventually. He was really good at waiting for things he wanted. 

=@=

They set the fatfuel near the fireplace to remelt. While stacking wood against the stone wall, they discovered some interesting stuff hidden in one of the bookcases, including bottles of liquor and some really questionable-looking spellbooks. Sam took one off the shelf, nearly dropped it. The cover felt like it was moving slightly under his fingers. He might have heard a small sigh when he cracked the cover—it made him eye the fireplace, but this wasn't his to destroy, creepy as it seemed.

Inside, it was all drawings of various sex acts with various beings and humans in diverse degrees of enjoyment. Dean shuddered hard, snatched the book out of Sam's hands and shoved it back on the self. 

"Let's not look at that one," he muttered, and Sam was more than fine with that. Right before Dean had taken the book from him, Sam had thumbed to a page on which one being was committing an act on another being, a horrible, painful sexual attack that he'd had forced on him once—by a human. Sam blinked fast and hard, mentally backpedaling, trying to unsee what he'd seen. 

"We'll go through this bookcase again. I'm betting these are the important books since they hid them. Aa-and, let's grab a few of these. After all our hard work, we deserve them." He shoved a couple of bottles into Sam's arms. "We'll crack one open after dinner to celebrate Lucille's rescue, right?" 

After dinner, they stoked the fire in the big, stone fireplace, and tossed cheese and some crackers (and peanut butter for Sam) on a plate to eat as they attacked the assortment of bottles. They only had so much dry wood left to heat the cabin and that meant not being able to use the fireplace in Dean's room, a fact that Dean had been moaning about.

"So use magic; how big a deal is it to warm the air in the room?"

"I don't have magic like that," Dean moaned. "I just use other people's spells, and sometimes cast some little kitchen magic...sorry to disappoint." 

Actually, it made Sam feel safer to know that Dean was shit at magic. But couldn't he dry wet wood? Even Shit-For-Brains would had been able to do that. And more. Sam frowned and scrubbed at the back of his neck before taking a deep drink from the bottle of what Dean called 'wine.' It was nice, sweet-ish, sparkly on his tongue. "You can spell the wood to dry, right?" Sam asked.

Dean's forehead crinkled, his lips poked out as he pondered, and Sam thought it was cute as fuck. He stared at Dean, imagining that his dick was in the center of that pink, little, pout, and shivered.

"I guess I could, I mean, not off the top of my head, y'know," Dean said. "But there's a book of quick 'n' dirty road spells in Lucille's locker, back of the truck. We never cared to depend on this stuff back in the day. We just never got comfortable with it—too close to the stuff we hunted, or so Dad and I thought back then. What about you? You know any spells?"

"No," Sam said. "I only know a few words here and there, nothing you can string together into a spell—a little Latin, a little Greek, a few words of 'Nochian. None of them fucks let me handle anything worthwhile. Of course."

"Hunh. Well, the guy that helped raise me, Bobby, he's damn good at spell work, almost witch level. Dad never liked that...not that Bobby was in Rowena's league, 'course. Now her, she's magic-nuke levels—she could probably scorch a field down to the bedrock if she chose to. But she swears she's comfortable where she is. The only time she screwed up was one time thinking she could fuck with a goddess. Real-life goddess, powered-down or not—no idea why. Bit off more'n she could chew, ha!"

Dean scooted next to him on the hideous fur rug they'd found rolled up in the same bookcase with the hooch in. It was an old bearskin, a bear who'd died hard and angry if its beady little glass eyes were anything to go by. Dean had drank himself past respecting personal space, leaning all over Sam, getting a bit touchy-feely, and since Sam was a little tipsy himself, he enjoyed every second of it.

Dean lifted the bottle and swallowed, carefully set it down, then leaned in to tell Sam with a wink, "I'd just done a small job that I'd contracted with her to help. Woman put a spell on me when I got set to leave, gosh-damn tracking spell, can ya believe it? Guess she wanted to know where I was when she needed it—me, I mean." 

Dean's eyes glazed over in a look Sam didn't much care for, as Dean muttered, "Man...she did this thing with her tongue, and then she put a finger...anyway! Spell alarm in the glove box lit up when I got in Lucille. Came back to get her take it off." 

He stopped, took another deep pull from the bottle. "Where was I? Oh, right...anyway, reverse tracked her, helped kill the godbitch, what a fuckin' mess—she owed me big. Which I got paid off in spades, thank you Ro. Taking care of m'boy here."

He drunkenly patted at Sam's shoulder, hand slipping off and landing in the vicinity of Sam's lap. Sam wiggled until Dean's hand was more or less cupping his dick. He arched into the contact: drunk, content, the most comfortable he could ever remember being. And then, just to make it better, Dean flexed his fingers, and Sam whined, closed his eyes and spread his legs wider. The warmth of the fire, the warmth of Dean's hand...he wondered briefly if Dean knew he was basically stroking Sam's dick. Jeezus, in a few more minutes he was gonna coax Dean up the stairs, and then into bed, and then into his ass….Sam giggled, full on drunk now, and thinking that was kinda funny, yeah. Drunk enough to think it was a good idea.

 _Any minute now, he was going to...to..._ He snuggled into the tatty fur rug, teetering on the ledge between horny and sleepy, when the warmth, the booze and the unaccustomed feeling of being totally safe tipped him over into warm dreams. 

He jumped, wide awake, when a couple of books hit the floor near him, hacking when an errant fleck of dust choked him.

"Okay, Sleeping Beauty, you had your nap." Dean's hair was spiky with water, and he'd changed his clothes. How long had Sam been asleep? Dean had sure been busy while Sam was out, going up and showering and dressing and then apparently poking through the cabin's small library. 

Dean crouched next to him, going a little pink in the cheeks when Sam stretched his long self across the rug, arching a little with how good it felt, and then rolled upright. He rubbed his face, trying to clear the haze in his brain, and then groaned a jaw-cracking yawn—smacking his lips and gagging a little at the taste in his mouth. 

What the fucking hell with dropping his guard like that? He was still a little drunk right now, his body still working on burning the alcohol out. Fuck, he hated getting drunk like _drunk_ drunk, usually avoided it if he could. From his first time with alcohol, when that fucking one-legged bastard had made him drink a whole bottle of some vile rotgut by himself, then passed him around—

"—Sammy? Hey, d'ja hear me? I got us coffee brewing," Dean said, "We're gonna go through this shit until we find the spell that reactivates the house—or at least warm a room. It's cold as a yeti's dick upstairs." 

_Fuck_ Sam stared at the pile of books, his good mood from before was completely gone; the familiar feeling of being less than garbage flooded him, made even worse by the books, and Dean's expectations, and his failures, and, and—

Sam growled, making defeat and humiliation sound like anger, "What're you, stupid? Nobody teaches a fuckin' monster to read."

Dean stared at him, open-mouthed, before snapping. " _'Course_ you can't. Totally expected. Fucking criminal bastards that kept you captive were probably too stupid to teach you. And we're gonna fix that, because a smart fucker like you? Won't take long. You're pretty and smart and fuckin' tough as nails. Total winner."

 _Well, guess he's still drunk too,_ Sam thought, and eyed the pile dubiously. Deep inside, though, a tiny flame stuttered to life. _Read._ He couldn't imagine having that kind of power. To go from monster bait, to a being a person? He looked at Dean, who was grinning at him over the pile, and hoped. 

=@=

"S-a-l-v-i-a...saliva?" Sam asked, nose wrinkling in confusion. He knew that was wrong...saliva was spit..."Salvia?"

"Yes!" Dean crowed. "Oh, you are good." He beamed at Sam and tapped his bottle against the top edge of the skinny book death-clutched in Sam's sweaty fingers. The bottle was a thick glass green thing that read C-O-K-E, which Dean said was the name of a drink, but Sam knew the bottle was full of the beer Mayor May had sent along with Dean, meant for the head MoLs in Sioux, not Dean's little family house. Sam wiped a few errant drops off the book's spine. 

Sam liked it. It was simple book, all about useful herbs. It was short, clear, and full of bright pictures. Sam kind of hated that Dean's big-ass grin made him feel like he'd been an especially good boy whenever he recognized a word in it.

It was kind of magical, though, this reading thing. Sam came to find he loved it. He loved it from the first time the unknown shapes of C-A-T became CAT. He'd felt like a million wings had opened up inside of him and filled him from head to toe; like his whole world was suddenly, incredibly, bigger.

He had times though, that he felt like he wasn't moving fast enough, like tonight. He sat with his booklet, and stared at the pile of books Dean was working through at the end of the table. Those were the real thing, real spells, making real magic. He knew Dean hated magic. Could see it in the way his mouth pursed, his eyebrows drew together, the dashes of red making his cheeks glow. He made a pretty picture when he was irritated though, or when he was frustrated, or...anytime, really. 

Sam loved the way Dean's lashes curled, outlined his moss-colored eyes...loved the splash of copper-colored dots all over his nose and cheeks Dean said were called 'freckles', and claimed to hate. Sam bent, and tucked his nose against the sleeve of his shirt, which he'd fished out of Dean's bag just that morning. He gazed at Dean, feeling a lazy little curl of warm contentment grow inside, lulling him gently to a soft half-doze—he jerked awake when Dean huffed to himself and slapped his book shut. 

Dean fixed Sam with an intense stare, like he was about to impart some incredible bit of wisdom, but Sam only gave him minimal attention since he knew the man had a tendency to look like that even if he was only preparing to argue that it really was Sam's turn to do the dishes despite Sam being damn sure he'd already had kitchen duty that week, like, three times already. Ass. 

"Gah, fuck—this one was just fulla monster stuff. Dead-boring. Unless it's telling me how to ice one, there's not much I need to know on that subject; what'da I care what drives 'em?" he said. 

"Well, how do you know about weres, and 'walkers and other monsters without reading about them?"

"Seriously Sam, 'walkers and weres and stuff—they're citizens—supers, not monsters. Monsters are...they are…" Dean flapped his hands like he was grasping for the words, his frown-lines digging in deeper. "They're the brainless ones, or the ones who only see everything outside of their own selves as dinner. Well, except for Vamps. They finally glimmed they can't eat everyone without eventually starving. Sort of. Those bastards are really on the line."

For some reason he'd never shared with Sam, vamps were not Dean's favorite kind of monster. 

Dean exhaled hard, and scrubbed his hair until it stood out spiky as a hedgehog. "Let's take a break. I'm not finding anything useful anyway. No proper spells—most of this stack is just a lot of history and shit."

 _History?_ Intrigued, Sam leaned forward, asked, "Yeah? Like history of what?"

"Like...well, like when the world went to shit, I guess. I...you want to know? Not like it'll make a difference or anything. What happened happened—done and over."

Sam shrugged. "Sure, why the hell not? Shit-For-Brains used to go on and on about the good old days. Seemed to mostly involve drinking and fucking, though."

"Of course it did—'the good old days' was probably the last time his dick got hard." Sam had to giggle at that, and Dean grinned one of those little tongue-tease grins of his before going on.

"Well, you know at one time, all this was different. There weren't any citizen supers. There were just monsters and humans and hunters, who killed the monsters who killed the humans."

Sam nodded. He knew that. Shit, and fuckers like Shit, explained that, like, constantly when he'd been growing up, usually at the end of a boot like it was his fucking fault the world went to shit. Must have been a pretty fucking fantastic world, the way those old bastards went at him for it.

"Anyway, at that time, the American Men of Letters appeared, coming out of hiding, according to chapter house history. They created a plague meant to kill all monsters, kinda like a hostess gift or something...never mind, that only makes sense to Bobby and Miz, and they think it's funny." Dean shrugged, with an expression that said, _old people, whataya gonna do?_

"Their plague was a new kind of spell—a little magic, mixed in with a little science. It worked all right—but only on monsters built closest like humans. And then of course it jumped to regular humans. 'Cause humans have shit luck. The witches and sorcerers and necromancers and other fucked up, borderline humans thought the MoL were targeting them and retaliated, and the Men fought fire with fire. Humans thought that diseases were being used as weapons by other humans, and they fought back with bombs, which meant for a few hot minutes the air was full of them, and some made it past the MoLs protections and found targets. It was a _real_ shit time."

Dean stopped, and any twinkle in his eyes dissolved with the rain of memories. "Well, fortunately, or unfortunately, however you wanna look at it, everything collapsed before the humans could make a real mess of the world, and the Menaletters stepped in and took control of everything —some mind control here, some psychic nudges there—aaand a few demonstrations of what magic nukes could do to the world." 

They were quiet for a bit, Dean probably thinking about what he'd lost, and Sam wondering what Dean could have lost to make him look so sad.

Dean sucked back half the bottle, slammed it on the table and grinned, a sharp slash without much humor in it. "Then the fuckers were generous enough to rebuild the world again. And all they wanted was a little...just a little bit of repayment, nothing anybody couldn't afford to give. Heck, the folks left couldn't afford not to give. And people were so thin on the ground then. We'd go months sometimes without seeing live people when I was little."

Sam nodded. "So, they made the monsters—supers," he corrected, to head Dean off from explaining how he wasn't a monster one more JeezDamned time—"citizens because they needed us."

"Yep. Bodies added to the count. Threats and treats and the memory of their insides bubbling out of them made the prospect of becoming citizens attractive to the remaining supers. At least, that's how Uncle Bobby told it to me, and what these—" he shoved a pile of thin books towards Sam—"more'n'likely will say too. Though probably leaning towards making the moles heroes."

Sam picked one up and looked at the black cover, words printed on it in blue, and a symbol he knew meant _watching eye._ He opened it, and thumbed through it. 

Just a wall of letters to him now, but he'd read it cover to cover one day, swear on bones he would

=@=

_"C'mere, boy. Stop jumping around—shit!_

_Sam rolled to his side, kicking out with his feet, screaming as he did. Everything still hurt. It felt like a hot teapot was sitting on his back and neck. No matter how much he squirmed and wiggled, he couldn't get away from the stabbing, burning hurt in his butt, or the feeling like he'd swallowed gravel. He flopped to his back and scooted backwards as fast as he could, using feet and elbows, trying to avoid the touch of this guy his master had shoved into the shed with him. He was scared, terrified to the point of blacking out, but he knew if he did that, it would be even worse—better to be awake, he'd learned that._

_*  
Even though the wires hurt his feet, he was glad to be locked in the dog cage. Had been locked in for a few sleeps. At least in the cage, he got better all the way, all the hurts healed at last. He still had a mark all the way down his side and leg, maybe forever, from the time that sorcerer put a knife with some black powder on it into his skin. _

_He was all fixed up again, though, and was getting out of the cage tonight. He heard the human say they were going hunting tonight, hunting a—a rawp. A rawhead._

_He wondered what that meant…._

Sam woke up with his throat on fire and a grip on his blanket that was making his fingers ache. He managed to uncurl them at the same moment his door opened, and a disgruntled looking Dean stuck his head in. "Get up," he barked. "I've had enough of this."

Sam felt everything inside him freeze—it felt like dying. _How could he, after the reading together, and the cooking and the sharing of the peanut butter—how could this heartless bastard throw him out like trash—_

"Ohmajeez, stop looking at me like that. I just meant come with me. Nobody's getting any sleep unless you relax, and sleeping with me oughta help."

Sam went from devastated to fucking embarrassed and so furious his chest hurt, but again Dean cut into his thoughts. 

"Oh for fuck's sake, you been practically emptying my laundry basket lately. I'm forever coming in here and stealing back my clothes; I don't care about that. But Sam, if something about my stink makes you feel okay, than sleepin' in it should help, right?" He finished with a scary huge yawn. "C'mon, 'm tired," he mumbled and started padding away, his bare feet making a swishing noise on the wooden floor.

Sam stood, uncertainty making him grab his strawberry blanket and clutch it to his chest. But the idea of sleeping covered in the smell and _feel_ of Dean had him hurrying out of the room after him. He stumbled across the tiny hallway into Dean's room, strung-tight muscles immediately going loose as Dean's scent flooded his nose. It smelled of Dean's soap, his shave powder, as usual. Leather, but less of tobacco now. Underneath it all, was his true scent, the scent Sam had on his own skin now, almost all the time: a hint of burned sugar, blood, dried grass, and. Oh. Well. That was definitely a fresh scent—there'd been a hint of it threaded through Dean's scent constantly lately and now Sam could definitely peg it for what it was...semen. 

Sam flushed, and felt ridiculous for doing so, _and_ not getting it before now, considering how much come he'd had to deal with in his life. It was just, the thought of it being Dean's, and imaging him, and what he looked like, and what he sounded like when he did come….

Dean stopped abruptly in front of him, his shoulders going high and so tense it was easy to see, everything about him suddenly amping up—heartbeat, breath, scent—

Sam bit down on a corner of his blanket to keep from snickering. Seemed Dean was just now realizing bringing a monster who could practically smell what you had for breakfast yesterday into a closed-up room you'd jerked off in...Sam sniffed... _a lot,_ judging by the smell, was potentially embarrassing. 

"Um, well…"

"Don't worry," Sam said. "I'll just sleep on the floor."

"Worry—what? Nah. Get in the bed already, I'm not worried." He made a stab at joking. "You get fresh, I can fight you off."

"I'm a lot stronger than most humans—" Sam started to say. 

"Not fucking helping, Sam."

But it worked out really well. Sam slept like a pup, the best he had even since hooking up with Dean. Swimming in his scent made a difference, all right. And sleeping in the same bed changed the shape of their relationship. It got harder and harder for Sam to ignore the fact that his body really wanted Dean, his scent, his touch, everything. It felt more and more natural to have Dean in his space, so much so that Sam felt split in half if Dean wasn't there. The evenings, when they sat close, head to head, and worked on Sam's lessons together, filled him with a sense of peace. Sam wanted him, but more than that, Sam wanted to understand him. 

Sam wondered what it was like for skinwalkers when they...when they felt connected to someone. What would it feel like, to fuck someone and not feel contempt for them? The only person he'd ever had sex with that didn't turn his stomach was Luther. It had been good, even—great. But he'd not felt any kind of connection to the man, not like the connection he was beginning to want from Dean. 

=@=

Sam's fingers were aching, he held the pencil so hard, drawing it over the paper with all the concentration he'd used as a pup laying a grain trail, luring a corn wolf close for the hunters to kill. The letters were shaky, but they filled him with pride. This was something that belonged to him. Like his blanket, his sweater, this was his. His name. _Sam._

He held the paper out and looked at it, a little smile on his lips. 

_"Sam."_ Dean said, his voice reflecting the pride Sam felt. "Good job." He took up the pencil Sam had been using; grabbing a sheet of paper, he wrote his name out as well. "Dean Henry Winchester. This is my whole name. And I think you should have something more than Sam. Something that says something about you. Lessee….Samuel...umh...I don't know. What do you think?"

Sam folded the paper with his name on it, folded it into increasingly smaller squares before getting up to throw it into the fireplace. He kept walking, past the fireplace and on to the outside. 

He took off, without a coat or hat, no gloves...he loped along, leaving the cabin and Dean behind. 

Dean didn't get it. 

Sam couldn't just...pick a name. He couldn't have a name. He knew, and Seli-ma knew, that _Sam_ wasn't really a name. Dean made it easy to forget that it was just a sound that made it easy to call him. He couldn't have a name then because he was a freak, and he couldn't have a name now because he was a twisted, broken freak. Even Ugly, who'd had nothing, had a name, and refused Sam one. Wouldn't even use the name that wasn't really a name.

He slowed as he looked about, saw he was in a patch of woods new to him. Panting, he cast about for a spot to rest. There was a fallen tree close by, a natural bench he could sit on and keep his ass out of the snow. His knees buckled as he sat. He really hadn't noticed how far and how hard he'd run until now.

He sat still, trying to empty his mind, taking deep breaths and letting them out slowly, which did shit for calming him and only reminded him of all the times in his life he'd sat in some corner and breathed deep to keep from killing something. He tried for rage instead—a good friend that got him through most shitty times—but nothing came. He just felt worn out and cold, sitting there and staring at snow until he saw nothing and felt nothing and just kept drifting deeper and deeper and deeper—

He jerked, the small movement seeming violent with how long he'd been motionless. What had knocked him out of his head like that? His nose twitched. It was smell...he smelled peanut butter mixed with strawberry jam, a faint tickle of scent that slowly got stronger. His mouth watered, he blinked as a strong flash of memory of the first time he'd tasted the combination rushed through him; Dean beaming at him, eyebrows raised in expectation of Sam loving it. He'd been so right.

The steady crunch of footsteps in the snow grew louder, closer, until finally, there was Dean.

Looking shamefaced, Dean slowly held a slightly squashed peanut butter sandwich out to Sam. "I'm sorry. I did something stupid again, didn't I?"

Sam's face twisted, he felt the damn tears building up, and fuck that. He hadn't cried—really cried—since he was a pup. Dean still held out the sandwich, waiting patiently until Sam took it before sitting down next to him. He quietly, watched Sam eat every bite before scooting a little closer, close enough that their shoulders touched. 

"I'm human," Dean said finally. "I don't recall stuff as well as you supers can. But what I do remember, I treasure."

Sam nodded, licking a bit of peanut butter from his fingers, confused as to what that had to do with him.

"You know why I like making PBJs for you?" 

It had never occurred to Sam that it was something Dean _liked_ doing. He shook his head, wondering where this was all headed.

"Because my mom made them for me. She took care of people, she took care of me. I like taking care of people—of you."

Sam licked the last bit of peanut butter from his fingers, and fixed all his attention on Dean. "Yeah?"

"Yeah, I do. You're important to me, Sam, and I'm gonna do my best to take care of you. I hope...I hope you don't mind."

"No, I don't mind. I'm, y'know...it's nice of you. I never had anyone tale care of me. Seli-ma, she took care of me, because I was her pup, and her duty. She liked me, I think. She let me play with toys, and taught me what her name meant, did what she could to make sure no one hurt me. Even when humans offered her a lot of goods, more than enough to take care of her for long, long time, she always said no." Sam stopped, staring into the past, as he thought about what to say. "She told me once, that my sire was nice. She didn't have to tell me that."

"I think she more than _liked_ you, Sam. I'm sure she loved you."

Sam wasn't convinced of that, but..."Maybe, but I feel safer with you than anyone."

" You do? I...wow. That's…"

Sam cringed inside, waiting for Dean to laugh in his face. Fucking funny, coming from a monster. 

"Well, makes me feel like I'm somebody special, because fuck knows, you sure are. You're a warrior through and through, beautiful and smart and just who I'd be like if I could choose."

"Then you're stupid. I'm a whore, a slave, I'm bait, and not much else." Sam expected Dean to turn to him with his big green eyes gone soft with sincerity, the way they did, and argue with him, insist that Sam was more than that, at least, he kind of hoped so….

Dean laughed instead, head thrown back, and teeth showing all the way to his fucking molars. Before the humiliation could burn through him like a wildfire, Dean grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him face to face. 

"If _that_ was all you were, you would not be standing today. You would not be a rock, you would not be this JeezDamn fierce. You'd fold every time, you'd treat me like your damn master when all along, you've treated me like I'm your equal. The last thing you are—ever been—is a slave. And I'm humble that you care for me."

Sam was stunned. He had no idea what to say back. He'd rather yank out his tongue than say, 'I might possibly jump in a fire for you if you asked', so "You're fucking crazy," is what he said instead.

"Yeah, it's been said on numerous occasions," Dean laughed. "Now, please come on back to the cabin, Sam."

They turned back the way they'd come, so close that they bumped shoulders frequently, and somehow, their finger managed to graze one another a lot. After a long, silent stretch of walking, Dean said, "Listen, I can't come up with a name as pretty as your mom's, or something in your language, but I'd like to lend you mine, if you'd want it. Until you find one you do like?"

Sam felt a roaring in his head, and chest, this time the flame swept him was nothing but good. 'Claimed,' a part of him crowed, dancing wildly inside. 'He's human, he's just being nice', another part, the sane part, reminded him. 

'So, why give gift us his name then?' The insane part whispered back. 'Sometimes, beings don't know they want it, but they want it.'

Sam walked quietly besides Dean, hiding the turmoil inside, tumbling his name around in his head, imagining having a real name, one that belonged to him. No, one that said he belonged to somebody.

He smiled. 

=@=

By the middle of WinterDay season, Sam was on the verge of losing it. Days were coming at him like cranky harpies. He spent so much time trying not to give in to the urge to shove Dean down on the nearest flat surface and go at him like a starved thing. Sleeping with him without fucking him, and him being so fucking nice to Sam all the fucking time threw fuel on the flames—except when he was fucking annoying as hell and even then Sam wanted to suck his brains out through his dick.

Didn't that fool get that all the showering Sam was doing had nothing to do with wanting to be clean? How the fuck much cleanliness did he think Sam needed? 

The idiot probably thought it was something to do with the way 'walkers were. Jeezus.

=@=

Blinking blearily in the weak morning sunlight, Sam dressed, mainly by feel, and eased his way out of the cabin quietly as he could. He needed to put some space between himself and Dean. He'd come out of sleep in the morning with his nose buried in the close-cut hair edging the back of Dean's neck, swimming in his scent, his lips grazing the rabbit-soft skin there. His dick had been, while not really hard, definitely interested, and on its way to convincing Sam it'd be fine to rock just a little bit, just shift a bit until his dick pressed against the firm, hot skin of Dean's thigh. He'd given in to one long, not-quite-enough grind against Dean, before his brain had fully engaged. 

The "Oh fuck," of horror had been followed up a low moan he hadn't been able to swallow. Even between two layers of clothing, Dean had felt that fucking good against his dick. Luck had been on his side, though, and Dean had kept on snoring. Sam hated to think what would have happened if Dean had woken up to Sam pawing him in his sleep.

So, he got himself outside and was wandering around the clearing the cabin was set in, making little sorties into the woods surrounding it. The snow had drifted in spots, so that some areas were clear enough to walk through easier than before. Mostly, he cared that it was ass-freezing cold out, and that helped to kill his insistent hard-on. He marched up a small rise, cussing out his dick for trying to get him in trouble.

After a trot up one hill and through the underbrush, he was ready to head back towards the cabin, and the breakfast Dean had to be making about now. He'd not taken more than a few steps when a strange noise stopped him in his tracks.

Besides their own noise, there'd been no other sounds but the passage of animals, the constant, soft sound of snow dropping, or branches cracking under the weight of it, for days on end. Now, suddenly he was picking up the crunch-crunch of multiple feet in the snow, a strange creaking sound he thought was familiar. He looked behind himself and saw a group of people moving up past the little copse of trees that Lucille was resting under. 

Some were pulling middle-sized sleds...he shivered, putting memory to the sound now, remembering pulling a sled himself when snow was thick and a master thought it was funny to have a skinwalker pull his sled. Sometimes the owner had just been a down-on-his-luck asshole, who owned nothing _but_ his slave and a sled, and those were the worst fuckers ever….

Shaking himself out of daymares, Sam could see them now, still a ways off but visible against the snow. A few of the group stopped and sniffed the air, walked on; a different few would stop and cast about, scenting. 

"Holy shit…" Sam was instantly on alert, certain that this group was made up of weres of some kind. He wondered if they were picking up his scent alongside Dean's, fuck—he had no way to hide it either, not in all this fucking snow.

From his spot slightly above them, he could see the group's center was made up of a circle of women, surrounding pups of all ages. Huge wolves weaved in and out of the group, and the way they were greeted made it plain to Sam that what was headed towards them were werewolves—normal, healthy, werewolves, not the half-crazed monsters he mostly ran across as a bait. "Fuck me," he mumbled, fear making him want to bolt towards the cabin, to Dean. But unprotected and weaponless as he was, it'd be a guaranteed suicidal move.

The weres slowly wandered to a haphazard stop. A few stared at the house, shuffling, tossing their heads as they scented the air and talked together. The pups kept wanting to play and the mothers growled, snapped them back into order—even a few of the adolescents had their ears plucked by testy females. Seeing it, Sam couldn't help but smile. He remembered pissing Seli off and getting that sharp, hot, snap on the ear. Nothing got the attention quicker. He watched a were, a tall brown boy with wild black hair, run away from one of the women, rubbing his ear and laughing. 

It must be nice to have such a big family, Sam thought.

Finally, the pack as a whole seemed to consider the house, and then one of them pointed to the curl of smoke coming from the chimney—the smoke drifted upwards, until it reached a certain point in the sky and disappeared—sheared off by the concealing spell. 

Sam moved down the hill and out of the shadow of the trees; he angled towards the front of the cabin. A few heads turned towards the movement, expressions blandly uninterested, but gazes zeroed in on him like arrows. When he cleared the trees completely, they all angled toward him. It seemed like an idle move, but it put their bodies between him and the pups. He was sure now that they'd been picking up on his scent for a while, and wondered if that would be a problem. Ugly, the old 'walker that he'd been caged with, told tales of various monsters not getting along at all, and had always said that werewolves saw themselves at the top of a heap that had shifters firmly on the bottom and 'walkers somewhere in a very thin middle. 

Hopefully, this group would just move on. They had to know the cabin belonged to the Men of Letters, and he doubted they'd want to mess with one of their hunters.

He could see them better now. Most of them in human form were dressed like a regular group of loggers or hunters. Heavy shirts and boots, down jackets on some of them—to the eye they looked ordinary. Some of them carried packs, probably full of the meat Sam could smell, which explained what they were doing out in the woods—hunting, hopefully just moving through.

Only it turned out he had no such luck about them moving on though. One of them came out of the pack, trailed by a couple of weres. The strolled up to Sam, and he saw the one in the lead was the long-haired boy who'd run from the females, laughing.

"Hey, you with the human staying here? He a mole?" The wolf was tall as Sam, with dark brown skin and leaf-green eyes that locked on him with bright interest.

"Nah. Hunter, working for them. We're stuck up here until Thaw." Sam shrugged and the young wolf beamed.

"Oh, gothcha, ya, sucks being stuck, don't it? Well, we got some stuff to trade if you guys want." He turned towards the other wolves, two grizzled, older wolves who dipped their heads at Sam. They looked curious, and straight-eyed him like Sam was a pup, but not like he was garbage. It made a difference.

"Trade...I don't know. You gotta ask my hu—my partner."

The boy's eyebrows shot up his forehead and he looked Sam up and down. He grinned, a slow lazy thing that made Sam want to blush, and cuff him. "Sure, sure. Your partner. Can we talk to him?"

Sam huffed, and nodded. "Yeah, he's inside. You can follow me if you want." 

The boy stepped back and let the older two walk in front, and Sam tipped his head as they passed him. By the small grins he got back, it was the right thing to do. He looked at the boy and the boy's grin went a little less lecherous to warmer, like Sam had passed a test he didn't know he was taking. 

The kid walked by his side, swinging his arms, humming to himself and then said, out of nowhere, "Fastmile, that's my name, but everyone calls me Fast."

"Oh. Unh-hunh." Sam glanced over and the kid was looking at him with great expectation, "Uh, Sam, that's me." 

"Saa-am," Fast repeated, rolling the name on his tongue like he was tasting something exotic. Sam rolled his eyes—Jeezus, it was just a dumb sound, worth nothing. He growled when Fast smiled at him again, but Fast wasn't taking a hint. 

Dean came out on the porch just as the two old wolves hit the yard. He was fully dressed, coat and all, though the coat was hanging open and his boots were unlaced—he got dressed in a damn hurry. Sam noted he'd made time to get his coffee, though. 

He stood nonchalantly on the porch, totally defenseless, no weapon in sight, and blowing steam off his cup like it was a regular damn day, and _Fuck!_ Sam felt an instant spike of rage—if he'd been standing next to the fool, he'd have taken a chunk out of him, damn it. What the hell was he thinking, going out to confront a pack of monsters with no backup? 

What happened next made Sam's head spin—one of the old wolves let out a whoop, and swung his arms in the air. "Hey, Hunter," he called out, followed by a few others calling out as well, including the kid who'd been talking to Sam.

He pushed past Sam, waving wildly, shouting out, "Hey, Mister Dean!"

So there stood Sam, frozen at the edge of the yard and watching a bunch of wolves act like they'd gathered for a carnival or something, and at some point in time, had elected Dean 'King of WinterDay'. Not that Sam cared a whole lot, it just seemed Dean had made it around a bit. A few females passed him, giggling and whispering to each other and throwing Dean looks like he was a pack of ribs wrapped up in a pork roast...seems Dean got the fuck around a _lot._

"Hey, Winchester," an old wolf called out, "We got some meat to trade, if you have flour or cornmeal, that's what we're looking for right now. We never quite made it down to town last SpringDay, so we're really down on supplies."

"I might have some, come on up and take a look—your pack should go make themselves comfortable, good to see you all."

The old ones loped up to the house, hugging Dean before moving inside. 

Fast looked at Sam and Sam asked, "What other kinds of things will you trade for? " when what he really wanted to ask was _'how the hell do you know Dean?'_

"Tea for my alphas would be great—we have black tea but they like that weird flavored stuff—candy for the babies? Um...could use some cups, n' some wax…" He stopped and sniffed. "Can you do a cleansing spell? We picked up some tents recently, but bad things happened in them."

"Yo weren't the originator of the bad things, were you?" Sam asked, and grinned to himself when the kid's eyes went round in horror. 

"Not us, we follow The Law. We're citizens like you."

"Yeah, yeah, okay. You coming in?"

The boy smiled at him, a flirty curve of plush lips that pulled a blush out of Sam. "It's real kind of you to offer. But the only ones going in are my alphas, and maybe their council. The rest of us will just make a place over by that truck of Dean's. "

Sam watched as most of the crew undressed, folding clothes and putting boots on one of the sleds, chatting together like it was a market day. The weres that kept their human form walked past him dragging sleds towards Lucille. He ignored being sniffed by strangers—he wasn't sure what werewolf traditions were. He noticed that they whispered to each other, glancing at him, as he passed. 

Fast walked up behind him, a lumpy bundle of fabric. "Hey, 'walker, wanna help us set up the tents?"

Sam watched them all, how they worked together, moving in and out of each others spaces like an intricate dance. Again, that little stab of melancholy hit him, envy that they were all family, and all seemed to care for each other. He shook himself, turned to Fast. "Yeah...if you're sure they won't mind."

"We're all brothers out here, man." Fast clapped a hand on Sam's shoulder. "No one cares what you are, only who. And I can smell you're a good one."

  
phoenix1966


	9. Chapter 9

**Sam**

Turned out, Dean knew the pack through Bobby. 

He told Sam that he'd met this pack on a ride that Bobby took him on, part of Dean's getting familiar with the territory and the route the Men of Letters had wanted him to ride. The town was small, deep off the road, a fairly regular meeting place for this particular crowd. It had been Dean's first meet-up with citizen supers, and it had been an eye-opening one. 

Wolves, Dean told Sam, were pretty gregarious beings when things were going well. They were still getting used to the idea of being citizens when he and Bobby had come across them, just testing out what it was being part of society instead of hanging on the fringes of it and pulling down stragglers.

"Mind you," Dean laughed, "never met a wolf who ever copped to eating human flesh, but hey." He shrugged. "That was then. And back then, humans were still getting used to the idea that they weren't the top of the heap anymore; more than once had to cold-cock some asshole who thought that because a certain being was some kinda were, they were fair game for anything. The MoL gave me a job," Dean said, "part of which was making sure their laws were being carried out.”

Sam took from that, that the no-slavery law was serious, and Dean was even being paid to make sure the humans followed the law. Sam shook his head. Dean...he was such a dork, he really thought the reason he was so offended by enslaved supers was because he was being paid to be. Sam side-eyed Dean, watched him drink the mole's liquor, pass it around to the supers sitting close by him and snorted. 

How many mole agents would spend an evening with a bunch of drunk werewolves, howling right along with them?

As for werewolves, and this pack in particular, Sam found out from Fast that they mostly didn't deal with big groups of humans until necessary. They weren't farmers, but they were good at collecting things humans wanted, like wild material for medicine and spells, and even crafting. They brought in wild game and furs, something in big demand with the humans—they bought them to treat and prepare for Men of Letters. In turn, they got dry goods and sometimes domestic meat when hunting was sparse. Wolves of this pack sometimes traded for jewelry—werewolves in general weren't overly motivated to make baubles themselves, but liked a little sparkle sometimes. Fast had small gold hoops in the tops of his ears—apparently when he shifted, they sat in the tips of his long, pointed ears. 

"Looks hot, bitches like it," Fast grinned and Sam laughed. 

Sam caught Dean casting a quick look his way when he laughed. He was scowling, but he stayed sitting where he was, next to the old wolves, watching a storyteller tell the one about a lone wolf who outsmarts three pigs by talking them into building a house of straw. 

Sam was about to leave Fast to sit near Dean, but just as he got to his feet, a tall, tits heavy female slinked over to Dean's side and plopped herself on his lap. Dean gave her a lazy grin, and she leaned closer, whispering in his ear. 

Sam froze—he could smell how interested Dean was from where he was, saw him shift in his seat as the female whispered to him. An odd feeling rushed over him, not anger, not want...something that made his chest hurt, and his teeth want to drop, and his skin feel two sizes too small. He was restless and irritated at the female, who was none of Sam's business, just like Dean was none of his business. He was nothing but a good smell to him.

"Whoa," Fast said, obviously sniffing the air and looking surprised. "Bright's all over him. Trying for a rematch, I guess...but I thought you guys—I mean, your smells are all braided up with each other." He cut a side eye at Sam, the way he stood so stiff and silent, and uttered a small and quiet, "Oh." 

Sam shook his head, laughing softly. "Well, alright." He lifted his chin and smirked at Fast. "So. What do you guys do for fun?" and Fast's eyes went hot and intense. 

"Let's go for a run," he said, starting to take his jacket off. "Get some snow on our paws—oh, or whatever, excuse me for assuming—"

"Fuck," Sam said. "Man, I've got kind of a problem…."

=@=

"So let me get this straight—your beast has been locked down since _four?"_

"Yeah, thereabouts. I got bought when it was still a legal thing, I guess? And never got let go. Hadn't been for Dean I might still be caged—or dead by now. I didn't even know. And my beast, no idea. Don't remember a thing about changing really. Don't know how."

"Well, if you was a pup, I'd say it was easy; just relax and let go. But it's probably been under for so long, it doesn't know you."

They were walking along, crunching through the night-tinted snow, the moon high and bright and huge, making a light for their path. Sam mulled over Fast's words. _doesn't know you_. "You make it sound like it's a separate thing from me."

"Well, not really, but kind of? When you shift, you're still you, just with some bits of you, like...sleeping, but some bits of you are extra. But when you're...human-shaped, it sits right," he poked at the side head,"somewhere around in here. Mine is like a nosy-parker constantly listening in and letting me feel when I'm being a dork which I guess must be most of the time, at least according to the moms. And some of the dads...and the oldsters…" 

He stopped and gave Sam a huge, sparkling grin, his cheeks going round as apples and cute crinkles appearing in the corners of his eyes. Dean had crinkles like that, they just didn't disappear when he stopped smiling. And he did that little thing with the tip of his tongue peeking out that was so….

"You know," Fast said, "maybe I am a bit of a dork come to think of it."

Sam laughed, and thoughts of Dean-the-bastard evaporated. "I think you're pretty okay." 

"Okay, shifting lesson time." Fast lead him to a log and made him strip, and sit, then sat next to him. He was close; his body heat swept Sam up, and he was grateful for it, Skinwalker he might be, but his buck-naked ass on a freezing log was almost more than even he could take. 

Fast opened his coat and shirt, and grabbed Sam's hand in a steel grip—he was incredibly strong for a guy built like a bundle of twigs. He pressed Sam's hand against his bared chest. "Feel my heart?" 

At Sam's nod, he went on. "Close your eyes. Breathe in, breathe out, in and out, in …" Fast's free hand landed on Sam's knee, and the warmth was soothing. Boy smelled good, too, not as nice as Dean, but nice—sort of bright, like an orange, with little hints of pepper. Sam wondered if Fast had ever seen or eaten an orange. Sam had once, stole it from a john, right out of his….

"Slow breaths, Sam, slow, slow, slow...hands on knees now...soft, soft, feel yourself, feel..."

Sam was floating; drifting on the air currents, it was dark all around him, like being in fog, at night, with the feeling there was light, but up ahead, a ways distant, around a corner. It was too dark to see corners, or roads or if he was walking or flying….

"Sam," a soft voice broke into his thoughts, murmured,"what do you see?"

The velvety dark thinned a bit, dark gray fog billowed into his line-of-sight, and there was a hint, a feeling, that the light was closer. If he tried really hard he could just...about...see...where...he...was..."I see…"

Something huge and blacker than the darkness came flying at his face, the air around him was vibrating, filled with long sharp teeth and claws and fiery eyes that shattered the dark into pieces—like seeing color after a million years of darkness—

It screeched and roared, deafening him, and Sam threw himself backwards, desperate to escape whatever it was. 

He was on his back staring up at the sky, drenched in sweat, feeling like he'd been dipped in fire. His hands hurt and looking down, he saw they were curled, like talons. He got a flash of talons clawing for him and shuddered. His eyes filled with tears. _It hates me._

He closed them, and lay motionless in the snow, welcoming the chill as the fire slowly receded. The emotions that had crash-landed on him faded; he was distracted by a weird itchy feeling under his skin, along with a not very pleasant sensation of goose flesh madly racing up and down his body. He turned his arms up and yelped—there were black hairs all over them, as he watched, horrified, they disappeared, he swore they were flowing back into his skin. "Shit fuck!" he yelled, and staggered upright, shaking his hands like somehow he'd shake the hairs back out. 

Fastmile grabbed him, his arms wrapping around him, pressing his arms against his side. "No, no—try again. This time, just think...who you are."

"Who I am? I don't even know—did you see? What am I?"

"You didn't, not really, change, you got...your eyes went all yellow and orange and green, and you got a lot of teeth, wow, so many, and some black hair…" Fast's excited rant wound down, and he huffed, "and I have no fucking idea. I've never seen that happen before. Maybe one of the elders could help?"

Great. Sam sat back on his heels, wiped hair from his face. "No. Keep this to yourself."

He blew out a breath and leaned forward, his entire body shaky and weak. He dropped his hands on the ground, knees in the snow. He closed his eyes. _It's not cold. Fast is not staring at my asshole..._

He forced all thought from his head. _Try again._

He listened with all his heart; something was making a soft noise inside of him, something stretched and rubbed up against the inside of his brain. It was smooth and soft, and he began to smile, but in the next breath, it went all wrong, all bent, twisted, gnarled, reeking...Sam vomited, cramps making him drop to the snow and curl up in a ball. 

"Fuck, fuck—" Suddenly Fast was there, rubbing every part of him he could reach, squeezing the back of his neck, a litany of "It's okay, it's okay, lay down, relax" running non-stop as he grabbed up a hand of snow. Sam heaved and groaned, and then Fast lifted his head, which weighed a fucking ton. Sam moaned, trying to get away from the pain, but Fast was gentle and relentless. 

"Here." He shoved some snow into Sam's mouth—he startled before getting what Fast was after. He let the small handful melt, swished it around before spitting it out. He did that twice with Fast's help before he finally felt less like dying.

Fast pulled him close, wrapping his arms around Sam's chest. "Sam, I'm so sorry, but he's there, whoever he is, whatever he is, he's there. I could feel it. You're going to be beautiful...but not a wolf? I don't know what you smell like, but it's not a wolf. Or a bear."

"How about a moose?" he croaked and Fast gave him a weird look. 

"No...no. Not a moose, either."

Sam fell back against Fast, leaning all his weight into him. It felt good. Fast's arms tight around him made him feel a lttle less frantic, and his bright, tart scent was actually calming. He felt bad at how much he wished it was Dean holding him instead. He opened his mouth and words fell out that weren't exactly directed at Fast, but still..."JeezDamn, I'm so tired of not being touched."

He heard a startled kind of whuff behind him and tilted his head back to look up at Fast. He was cute, and healthy and nice and Sam figured he could do worse and in fact had, over and over, what the fuck. But—"How old are you?" 

"Wha?" Fast wrinkled his nose at Sam before pulling himself loose. He put a bit of space between them, taking up time by passing over Sam's boxers and pants, then boots and socks. "I don't know," his forehead wrinkled, "lemme see, about...twelve, thirteen…" 

His whole face crinkled up in thought as Sam struggled into shirt and jacket, and got up to move away. He might have been fucking ever since he could remember, but fuck all if he was about to do that to someone under...Fast was a big fucking thirteen, though….

Fast face suddenly cleared and he gave Sam a gigantic grin. "Eighteen!" he crowed. "Because the last time we went to village, the store owner told me to help myself to a citizen badge because I was of age."

Sam stared at him. "Okay. That's…"

Fast was on him in a moment. "Besides, you know wolves mature earlier than humans do, right? I've been considered an adult since I was fourteen. Pretty much," he muttered, before smiling again.

 _Oh, really?_ Sam thought, looking up just in time to catch Fast giving him a look that he guessed was supposed to be seductive or something. It just made him look like he'd just finished eating some stolen chocolate, and made Sam doubt his word about his age. As for wolves maturing early, he didn't know a damn thing about that because all he knew about wolves was how to kill them.

"I swear…" Fast pulled his coat open and showed Sam a cheap little brass pin with a Men of Letters star stamped on it. Smirked, and curled a hand around Sam's chin and tilted him, to make it comfortable as he kissed him. Sam blinked. That was a confident move. 

The kiss itself was good, warm and slick, and way fucking experienced – confident. The kiss was so fucking good it helped the last of his pain to drain away. He surged up into it, and Fast made a little sound of pleasure and encouragement, like he was the elder and Sam was the inexperienced pup who needed a little guidance. 

This was so good, so nice...he'd been kissed before, but it had always been a mistake; whenever a human realized they'd gone that far, they pulled away, mostly blamed him and punished him for it. But not this kiss, this kiss was. Heat. Fast was hot, and Sam could feel a dick under those jeans that'd feel damn good inside him. He could lose himself and it'd be perfect. No worry about getting beat after. No attachments, no consequences, no having to share that he'd been a bait and a sextoy since four, no risk of getting rejected for fucking up some guy's view of his sexuality.

Yeah, this could be the best thing he'd had in...shit. Ever.

-=@=

**Dean**

So, here Dean was, with Brightsun wiggling in his lap and the weird thing was, it wasn't doing much for him, despite how many SpringDays he'd spent in her cottage. 

She was fun—had been from the very first time they fucked, both of them barely out of their teens when she'd plucked him away from Bobby and fucked him stupid that first night and a few others until they pulled up stakes again. He remembered truly spectacular blowjobs from her—pretty thing had, like, no gag reflex, remembered how fucking hot and wet she'd get, all juicy and...okay. So, they were damn good memories. Right now, though, he was just thinking she was heavy, and keeping him from jumping up and going after Sam. 

Bright was a real nice bitch, but so pack-centered that conversation between them was hard—but their basic form of communication had always been sex, so….

"What's up?" she asked, and inhaled in a way that would have been rude if they hadn't mixed scent before. "Luna's tits—you with a _guy_ now?" 

He glanced over to where Sam should be, she followed his gaze and "Oh!" she said, and, "Hunh." 

Sam was leaving the yard with little Fastmile. Well, fuck...Fast was not so fucking little anymore. Dean watched them saunter off, gritting his teeth all the while. 

"Oh shit, it's the 'walker? That's the guy you're with?" she laughed, and Dean thought he was about to crack his teeth. 

Sam and Fast were disappearing into the woods, and she whacked his shoulder like she was hitting another werewolf. When he managed to right himself again, she was looking at him like he was a pathetic, love-sick fool, which he was not. "Dude, you worried about Fastmile? Don't be—he'd not that kind of guy. He won't do anything your boy doesn't want."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Dean mumbled, and she laughed. 

"I'm see I'm totally wasting my time here—that boy has your nose wide open. Too bad, it was always a lot of fun with you."

Dean dropped his head and blushed. "Yeah, it really was, trust me, I haven't forgotten a thing about it." 

She slid off his lap with a touch more wiggle than necessary. "Too bad more humans aren't like you—willing to step outside your own little box. What's up with your boy, though? I mean, he's pretty and all, but..." 

"First off, he's not my boy, second, whatya mean?" Dean asked, kind of already pretty sure he knew what she meant.

"He smells off, like, more human than he should, for what's sleeping inside him."

 _an odd way to put it._ Dean thought. He said, "He's...he's had an awful life. He was broken when I found him—humans. They trapped him in that shape." 

She hissed, pulled back from Dean for a moment, and Dean went still, eyes turned away as he waited for her to gather herself again, showing all the respect he could. When she calmed, he asked her, "Can you...can you tell what he's supposed to be?"

She shook her head. "No, only thing I smell is him—and you, a _lot_ of you. Mated levels of smell…." She peered at him and Dean shook his head. 

"We only sleep, like _sleep_ together, not that it's really your biz."

"Oh, ain't though," she grinned back, her cocky attitude resurfacing. "But nah—whoever the boy is, it's deep, deep inside. He was well and truly broke, poor thing. Still, that don't make him human, man. Don't you forget that."

Dean shook his head. She leaned down and kissed him, her hair falling forward to shield them both from view. The kiss was good—warm, wet, and thorough. When she drew back, his body instinctively leaned towards her, eyes closed and breath coming fast. "Man..."

"Um-hmm. You remember that one, it's your last from me. Heads up, darlin', your boy's coming back."

"Told you. He's not—" 

Dean looked up, pinned in place by Sam bearing down on him, scowling like he was one step from baring all his teeth. Bright was sashaying his way—hips swinging, a smile on her face so wide, so bright, it stopped Sam in his tracks. For a second, Dean wondered if maybe Sam might follow Bright instead, but Sam just scowled as she passed. She winked at him, and growled, "Uhrrr, you lucky dog, you."

Sam startled back and blushed, a flush that left his nose and the tip of his ears bright pink. Shaking his head, he turned to Dean. 

Dean stood, hands loose by his side, but Jeezfuck, he wanted to grab Sam, ask what the hell he'd been doing out in the woods with Fast, tell him that he shouldn't walk with anyone besides Dean...

But saying something like that was taking a huge fucking chance. Wasn't like he knew how Sam felt. Shit, the boy had been in his bed nearly every night, never once tried to touch, and Sam wasn't a shrinking violet kind of guy. Maybe Dean wasn't his speed— 

Suddenly Sam was eye-to-eye with him. He snatched up Dean's arm. "Come on. We gotta talk, like, _now."_

Dean let Sam drag him along, trying to believe he was weirded out by the unfamiliar sensation of having not much choice in whether he moved or not. He was pretty sure if he lost his footing, Sam could still move him along like he weighed nothing. Shit. That shouldn't turn him on the way it did.

Sam slammed through the cabin door, Dean trotting to keep up, and the pack that had managed to ease their way inside all froze—looks of guilt on all their faces. 

Sam stopped, Dean slammed into his back. Sam asked, "What the hell are you all doing in here?" A dozen voices started to respond when Sam cut them off. "No, you know what? Get out, now." 

Weres jumped and converged on the exit, grabbing loose snacks, hooch, extra blankets on their way out. _See ya in the morning_ they heard and _Don't break him young 'walker_ Dean heard a whispered, _mates, who woulda thought it?_ as the last of their guests crowded out the door. 

The door slammed shut and there was silence, broken only by Sam's emphatic boot steps up the stairs, down the hallway, and into Dean's room. He finally let go of Dean to push through the door. He stamped to the center of the room and turned. "I'm going to kiss you," Sam said.

Even though Dean had been thinking of nothing much else but Sam since he met him, his stomach flipped. He took a faltering step back, stammered "I...okay, I, unh, see, I never kissed a guy. I've jerked a dude off, yeah, and one time fucked a guy, but that was...it had been a long time, and it was dark and—oh Jeezus—"

 _"Please_ for fucks sake, just stop," Sam said. "I get it. You're so not a homo, you're a big old straight guy and you'd never."

"Well. I'm not sure about that anymore. I mean, I think about you a lot. I think I'd like it if you kissed me."

Sam rolled his eyes and kicked out, almost hitting Dean in the shin, but Dean had reflexes like a puma and easily avoided Sam's gigantic  
feet. "Well, isn't that great? Here's the thing, though. I'm not here to let you test the waters. I had all the johns I'm gonna have in my life. You...I want this, this, whatever it is two people can have. I just want you, and me, and no contract stuff, is what I mean."

Dean stared at Sam and then tilted his head skyward. "You hearin' this? We haven't even gone on one date and he's tryin' to hobble me."

"Sheeech, I'm not trying to hobble you, dork. Don't need to. You're already mine." Sam held out his arms, showing off another of Dean's shirts, a gray flannel—Dean frowned. When had that one gone missing? Sam just smirked at him, said, "Some part of me knew before I knew...I knew. Shut up. I mean, we'll never be life-mated—our species difference won't allow for that—but there's some kind of biological click between us for sure."

Dean nodded. Yeah, they'd definitely clicked, alright. He'd never felt this instant attraction, this instant _interest_ in anyone else. But he had a free life, made his own decisions since he was sixteen, had relationships—or something like them, and knew what it was like to care for someone besides himself. He couldn't begin to imagine how a kid like Sam, who only knew life was shit and sex was pain and humiliation, could trust that Dean wouldn't fuck him over at some point. What did he know about trust?

Sam looked thoughtful now, said almost as if he was talking to himself, "Seli said my father was nice, she really liked him. She said he was sad to leave her. She looked sad when she said it. I think..." Sam looked up again, his tone gone firm,"...given a chance, things can be good between beings and you've treated me like your equal since you saved me."

"But...what happens when we get to Sioux Falls, and you meet other people, other supers? It'll be a brand new life. You might not want me around anymore." 

"Maybe," Sam shrugged. "But that's a maybe. Taking a chance on a maybe good enough for you?"

Dean stared at the boy. Well shit. It wasn't exactly _hallelujah, you and me come hell or high water_ but right now it had to be good enough for him. "Come here, then."

Sam walked over to him, moving like he was setting out to check the perimeter, not a single bit of the seductive little brat he's picked up what felt like a lifetime ago. Yeah, but it made his heart sing. 

Alright, Dean thought. _Maybe_ was more than fucking good enough for him if it got him this now. 

Sam took his face between his giant, but elegant hands. So much misery in his life, but Sam could still make his touch delicate. Dean's eyes danced over his face, taking in everything about his boy; beautiful sea-green eyes, skin like honey that begged 'taste me', cheeks and lips tinted peaches and cream; he'd come to love the way Sam's elegant eyes brows curved in a question, and the question was—

"Oh, hell yeah," Dean breathed, leaned forward and pressed a tiny kiss to the beauty spot next to Sam's nose. "Yeah," he whispered again, "It's more than okay, please, kiss me—"

Sam cut him off with a kiss, perfect, warm, soft lips pressed against his. Dean stiffened— _no,_ no, okay, this was okay. This was...this wasn't some guy, this was _the_ guy. The guy who wore his clothes, and slept in his bed. The guy who rubbed his dick against him and whimpered in his sleep, but jumped up in the morning like nothing ever happened. The guy who was sucking his tongue like he really wanted to be sucking Dean's dick, and Dean's dick was totally on board with that. His lips sliding against Sam's felt like perfection—the friction easing by the second, the warmth making his mouth feel oversensitive and he loved it. He gripped Sam's hips and pulled him closer, trying to line their dicks up—he could feel the hot, hard brand of Sam's against his leg. 

"Whew." Sam stepped back. "Hey, not trying to piss you off, but..I can't right now, is that okay?"

Dean shuddered and swallowed a disappointed moan before working up a pretty good smile. "Yeah, of course it's...look, this is your call. I'm grown, I know how to deal with." He motioned at his obvious hard-on, and Sam smirked for a second before doing that thing where his eyebrows rose, making his fox-eyes little round, innocent windows into his soul, full of _'i'msorrylovemeyouokay?'_

Hesitantly, like he was expecting Dean to flip a table or something, Sam said, "I just. I want some time, need some, before you and me, y'know?"

"Oh my Jeez, sure, you want to _date!_ I mean, 'course you do, never been on one, right? You should. We will. Ah...do you know what a date is?"

"Yes, _Dean,_ I know what a date is. And, ah, thanks. I get going slow is kinda stupid when you look at my whole stupid life, but yeah."

"It's _not_ stupid at all. I tell you, I get it. It's just. I've never either. Dated, that is."

"What?" Sam stared at him, biting his lip, and then shook his head as he smiled. "Guess we'll be each other's first."

"Oh, for fuck's sake. You're embarrassing yourself."

Sam grinned wide, picked Dean up and tossed him onto the bed, before jumping on top of Dean. "You like it."

"Fuck off, and stop manhandling me, Jeez."

From where he was smashing his face into the crook of Dean's neck, Sam snickered, said, "sure. I can feel you smiling. You love it."

=@=

The pack moved on a few days later, Fast stopping to carefully give Sam a few hints about changing—all the while keeping a watchful eye on Dean. It was kind of funny, really. But Sam was glad the pack moved on. 

And, just like he promised, Dean and Sam began dating...which was probably like no dates I the history of dating Dean figured, but what the hell. Neither he nor Sam were average kind of beings, so it kind of fit….

Sam was sitting on the counter, long, gorgeous legs wrapped around Dean's waist, and rolling his hips against him, just perfect to rub their dicks together, a hot back and forth as Sam explored every delicious inch of his mouth, rubbing the tip of his tongue against Dean's teeth, stroking over the roof of his mouth, sliding tongue against tongue; like wet, hot, velvet. When he abruptly pulled back, Dean couldn't help whining in disappointment. 

"Fuck, Dean. You are too damn hot. Eggs are burning."

"What…?" Dean wrinkled his face, trying to understand what Sam meant, and feeling more than a little freaked. Did he mean..."You got eggs? What the fuck?"

Sam looked at him like he was insane. _"Your eggs,_ idiot. The ones you were cooking when I came in?" He hopped off the counter and Dean lost a minute watching the sway of a pretty impressive dick under the thin cotton of Dean's old boxers. The movement painted a wide swath of wet down the front. Dean cupped his own dick, squeezing the head through his boxers. Sam swept past him, gathering up the smoking frying pan. "There's another breakfast down the tubes," he muttered. 

"Stop fucking ambushing me in the kitchen, then." Dean figured that counted as dates one, two, and three—at least that's how many breakfasts they'd tanked. He grinned at Sam. Damn, they were good at this dating thing.

=@=

Sunlight pushed through the slats of the window blinds, striping Sam light and dark, like a tiger, Dean thought, and snorted. He had a temper like one, for sure.

Dean carefully, slowly moved Sam's legs apart, listening for a change in his breathing. He had no idea what made him want to wake the guy up like this, besides the thought that _he'd_ like, it, what guy wouldn't? He knelt between Sam's spread legs, mouthing the head of his dick.

Sam woke with a snort, then his hand shot out to wrap tight around Dean's neck. His eyes were wide, and panicked before darkening, but not with lust. 

"Oh shit," Dean thought. Sam looked like...he tried to swallow, and with Sam's hand pressing down on his neck, it felt like trying to swallow a rock. 

Sam blinked and blinked before his eyes finally softened and he exhaled slowly. "JeezusSorcerer, I thought I was back there for a minute...fuck." He let go of Dean's neck, and sat up in bed. His boxers were pulled down some, where Dean had eased them to his thighs. He wiggled them the rest of the way off, before sitting up to rub at his face. After a few seconds he looked at Dean, still frozen in place at the end of the bed, his hands open on his thighs so Sam could see he wasn't about to touch a damn thing. "You okay?" Sam asked.

"Me? Are _you_ okay? Fuck, I'm so sorry, I'm an idiot. I thought…"

"No, it's okay. I just...maybe not do that, at least, not for a while."

Dean scooted up the bed, leaning on Sam's hips. "You call the shots. That way I won't fuck up."

"You didn't fuck up—you didn't know. And don't say you should have or I'll knee you in the balls."

"I just want to take care of you."

"You do. More than you could ever know. Now that I'm awake, though, and this didn't go back to sleep…" Sam stroked himself, those elegant fingers wrapping around his dick, making Dean want to chase them with his tongue. And he had permission to. So he did. 

He took Sam back in his mouth, tracing around the head with his tongue, rolling it over the crown and then, trying to get the tip of his tongue inside the little pink mouth. Went back to sucking, doing his best to shove Sam down his throat because he loved it, and licking up what seemed like rivers of precome. He had found it hot that Sam got wetter than a girl, right from the start, and then had been shocked to find out he loved Sam's taste, too. 

He pulled back to lick at the mess on his chin, and Sam stopped him. "Leave it, so fucking hot on you, you have you have no idea."

Dean growled; the grip he had on himself was so perfect he thought he might die. His heart pounded in his chest, his breath came short and choppy. He rubbed his face along the wet length of Sam's dick, glazed with his own spit, and Sam's precome. He imagined what a picture he must make to Sam, chin and cheeks and even his damn forehead dripping 'cause he had to get in between his cheeks and lick and suck that little dusky hole until Sam cried, and thinking about that was all it took for him to finish—he came all over the sheets, and Sam's leg. 

"Jeez _Damn!"_ Sam's beautiful damn dick jerked in Dean's grip, coming before Dean could stuff him back in his mouth, his release jetting out over Dean's chin, while Dean did his best to capture it and swallow it all down. All the while Sam was cursing vehemently under his breath, and _that_ had Dean's dick doing it's best to jerk back to life, had him hissing with how soon it was. 

"Hoo-oly fuckin' shit…" Dean forced his hand open—he was starting to hurt himself. 

Sam looked down, eyesbrows arched high, mouth bent in a smile. "You're getting so good at that."

"Well...thanks, I guess? You make it easy, you're so fucking hot."

Sam laughed. "Yeah, it's all me, sure it is." He pulled Dean up onto the bed. "Hold me," he demanded. "And do that thing where you rub the back of my neck, while thinking you're the luckiest guy in the world."

"Ass!" Dean laughed.

Pretty damn good date.

=@=

They were sitting on the rabid-bearskin rug in front of the fireplace, content with watching the flames crackle, and soaking in the warmth. Sam had the ratty strawberry blanket pulled up to his chin, and Dean finally worked up the nerve to ask the question he'd had since the first time he'd seen it. 

"Why do you carry that—that blanket around with you?"

Sam held it out, looking at it like he'd never seen it before, and then smiled. "I know it looks like a rag to you, but it's _mine._ It's the first thing I ever owned, and was almost the last. My second owner sent me into what was left of a store to retrieve goods, didn't want to deal with it since he thought it was being squatted by ghouls. My job was to get in the place, toss out whatever good stuff I could find as fast as I could—there was still good scavenging back in those days. No villages like now. Ghouls, and rawheads, rugarus, and monsters like them still roamed the streets. And there were still Eaters."

Dean nodded. He remembered Eaters, and how all the old people used to say they were like zombies, only not dead. That they'd chase you like a lion after a gazelle and not just eat your brains, but your face, and your skull; anything they could get their teeth on. Bobby said the Menaletters weren't sure where they came from—whether the humans made them by accident, or a sorcerer unwittingly hit on a replicating curse...thankthagoodJeezus all it took was a machete to the scrawny neck to take it out—if you were fast enough. 

"There were so many of them when I was a pup, and then, boom, hardly anything."

Dean muttered, "JeezThank" under his breath—he remembered being stuck on a rooftop once, watching those skeletal things darting around, claw-like mitts ripping and tearing at anything they touched, including each other. Fucking creepy screeching; made him wish he was deaf. He was damn glad they weren't around anymore.

"Yeah. Bobby thinks whatever caused them to be, also burned them out eventually—they just lived too fast." 

"Fuck yeah, they were fast." Sam shivered. "That night in the store, it was like getting overrun with cockroaches—like someone flipped on a light and there they were, running all over like crazy."

"Roaches!" Dean shuddered—both at the idea of Eaters running that horrible, hop-skitter they did at top speed, and cockroaches—fucking hell, he hated fucking roaches so fucking much. He became aware that his face was twisted in disgust, and Sam was looking at him like he'd lost his mind. 

"They're just bugs, dude. Anyway...I was fast, and little, and cagey as fuck. I got out of the store, led the Eaters right at that sonofabitch and got back to the safety of my cage on the back of the truck with the last item I grabbed—this blanket. Man, that asshole was mad, but he made it out alive, just missing the tips of a few fingers. That asshole beat the skin off my back, but eventually, that grew back. _Him,_ they called him Stumpy ever after that." Sam laughed, rubbed the blanket against his face.

"I love this blanket. It was the most beautiful thing I ever saw—pink and red and white, and I wanted to be the little girl so bad. She looked beautiful and happy, with her pretty dress and stockings. I figured if a person looked like that, then their life was probably great all the time. What a disappointment to find out that wasn't true."

Dean tilted his head, and opened his mouth to ask what Sam meant, but Sam ignored him. "Every time I got sold on, I stole it with; sometimes I was allowed to take it. It's old and ugly now, just like me, but I'll always love it."

"Sam...I'd tell you you're young and beautiful and will only get even more beautiful the older you get, but you probably wouldn't believe me so...just do me a favor and stop being mean to yourself. It hurts me."

Sam stared back at Dean, a speculative look in his eyes. "Okay...okay, I will."

Dean counted it as a good date even if he cried. Quietly. To himself. In the shower.

=@=

**Sam**

"S...A.." Sam went on to write out his first name, and carefully, laboriously, spelled out his last—temporary, he knew. No matter what Dean thought now, he was going to get tired of him sooner or later and take it back, but for right now, this meant everything to him. Belonging. _Claimed._ Claimed for life, whether Dean cared or not. 

"...E. S. T. E. R." _Sam Winchester._ He stared down at the paper, smiling, and suddenly Dean's warm self was stretched over Sam's back. 

"I like that," he murmured, and then, he straddled Sam where he lay face down on the bed, curved calves cradling Sam's ass perfectly. 

He pulled up Sam's shirt, and eased the top of his pants down so that the curve of his ass was exposed. Sam shivered, feeling Dean's eyes on him. Dean poked his finger into the small of Sam's back, dragged it own until it touched the swell of his ass. Moved it in sweeping curves. It took a second before Sam realized Dean was tracing out letters on his skin, over and over. He closed his eyes and concentrated and he was pretty sure Dean was writing an M, an I...a...an N? Oh! _Mine._ He'd written 'mine' on Sam's back. And was sure that Sam couldn't tell, so Sam said nothing. 

Dean kissed along the line of what he'd written, but just like Sam figured, never spoke the word out loud. 

=@= 

They were sitting in Lucille's bed, passing a thermos full of hot tea back and forth, their down jackets replaced by canvas now since the weather had taken a turn towards warmer. All indications pointed towards WinterDay's end. 

The area around the truck was punctuated with widening black patches of wet grass and mud. The roof of the cabin was dry and black, and most of the trees waved now bare black branches at a blueish-gray sky. The wet, warm wind blew past them, a warning of coming SpringDay; a short, wet season made up of rain and mosquitoes and wet clinging heat. Yep, Sam thought, can't wait.

Lucille's doors were open, so he could hear the tape playing; he hummed along as the singer belted out a song Dean called [ Laydown.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M4KHEsqAZVA) There was a meaning to the song, he'd said, something that had been really important to his dad, but he didn't remember what it was anymore. Memory was like that. Either too fucking clear, or too damn cloudy. 

There was something about the song, though, that sent chills through Sam. "It's… it's really good. Sad, but hopeful, too." 

Dean sighed. "Yeah, it is...you know, time's almost up, Sammy," he said." Another month, maybe less, we'll be able to head down this hill."

"Yeah…" Sam sat up and elbowed Dean, hard enough to rock him. "So, I'm thinking, shouldn't this be our last date? I think it's time we be...together."

Dean frowned, and Sam winced. He knew his tone hadn't quite matched his words, and Dean picked up on that.

Sure enough, Dean asked. "Are you sure? Because you know I don't mind waiting. I love everything we've done so far, and I'm fine—" 

"I'm ready to have sex." Sam fixed Dean with a steely gaze, lips pressed firmly in a 'I'm so serious' line.

"Ready to have sex? What the hell we been doing?" Dean asked, forehead creased. "I mean, those were some serious blowjobs. And class-A handjobs, I can tell you that." He flexed his hand dramatically. "I'm pretty damn good if I say so myself. Really, though," he mused, "if anyone had have ever told me a day would come that I'd be face-down in my pillow screaming for some fucking class-A _dude_ to eat me like I'm candy and hold my ass open for them, well, I'd have, I'd have...not believed them, that's for sure."

Sam laughed, instantly relaxing, and Dean grinned at him proudly, like he’d acted the doofus just to ease Sam’s mind—and it worked, the bastard. "You are like candy," Sam winked. "Okay, so you're not bad. And dude, by this time you know every inch of my ass from the inside and the out; those fingers of yours are magic."

"Barring the kinda gross image, thanks." Dean wiggled his fingers at Sam. "Just call me Magic Fingers," he said. "And I'll call you...Magic Tongue. Or not," he frowned. 

"Stop wandering from the main point, you." Sam reached in the truck and switched her off, and grabbed Dean before he could complain. It was okay, though, manhandling kind of revved Dean up, no matter how he tried to play it off. Sam marched him across the yard, pushed through the cabin door without missing a step or loosening his grip, herded Dean up the stairs to their bedroom, and then stripped them both, ignoring his small yelps—as if a hunter couldn’t handle a few pokes or five—and his hands slapping away at him like, a disgruntled cat. 

It was kinda cute. 

He let Dean go and eased his way onto the bed, and automatically leaned back, signaling everything was for sale—and caught himself. He winced, muttering, _fuck_ under his breath. Here he was screwing things up...and why? All their silly dates had gone well, and all the things they'd done so far had come pretty easy...why this?

"Hey...you’re sexy as fuck, you know that," Dean smiled at him, and the way he looked, like he was glad to have Sam in his bed—almost, fuck, grateful. That, and the genuine affection in Dean’s expression, made Sam actually feel sexy, like, for the first time ever in his life, sex was something he really wanted. At least, something he really wanted with Dean. Sex with Dean would make him feel...truly claimed. 

"Come on, come here," he said, "Take what's yours."

Dean's face went bright red, and Sam watched, fascinated, as the red flush that darkened his cheeks, rushed down his neck, spread across his chest and down, pointing directly to his rock-hard, dark-red dick, so hard it swayed with every breath Dean took. He bit his lips nervously as he cupped himself, staring at Sam's spread legs, and stumbled forward when Sam called him over. 

"Are you nervous? Don’t be nervous—you know me. Jeezus knows, you know this ass." 

Dean barked out a laugh that cracked the uncertainty, the tension; he fell on Sam, kissing, kissing him until Sam's head was spinning—his mouth felt hot and swollen, and his dick, trapped against Dean’s, was spilling precome like a river. 

Sam ended up with one leg wrapped over Dean's shoulder, and Dean pushing spit-slick fingers inside him, slowly thrusting in and out, then switching to one finger in and a thumb rubbing against Sam's taint, until he finally pushed Dean back, groaning, "Get in, fuck me."

"Romantic," Dean smiled, and lined up and slid in, Sam groaning with the deep-felt pleasure. Dean rocked slowly back and forth, dragging pleasure out of Sam in a way he’d never imagine could happen from getting fucked. They fucked slow and leisurely, despite Sam yelling faster, harder, and getting a lecture on _slow_ and _enjoy,_ before Dean slowed everything down even _more._ He reached out for the familiar little tube of slick on the bedside table. Sam complained, "I'm okay, I swear. Feel good." 

Dean huffed, ″For now. Just cause I don’t have a lot of experience with guys, don’t mean I lack experience in this. In a couple of minutes it'll get dry and it won't be as easy or as nice—" he groaned and rocked back slowly, taking his time; Sam felt like his whole body was wrapped around Dean’s dick, and didn’t want to let go. "Fuck, this is damn nice...let’s make it better."

"You can make this better? How?"

"Well, you know. Slick. Like...we use with my fingers?"

"Ah…" Like he had with Luther...he had to admit it was a good experience, it did make a difference. Luther had been hot. "Will it make it better for you, too?"

Dean snorted, but just poured some lube into his hand and slicked up first himself, and then Sam, taking the time to really wet him. When he slid back in Sam groaned longer, louder than even before. It felt amazing, even better than with Luther. He probably shouldn't say that out loud. Instead, Sam blurt out everything he felt about Dean, because Dean had to know what he was doing to Sam. "Oh, shit, Dean, fuck, that's good, filling me, and so hot, thick, better than anyone— _Dean!_ Jeezus, Jeezus, fuck me!" 

Dean shuddered, muttered, "Yeah, okay, okay…" He poured a little more slick onto his shaft and slid forward all in one endless glide, shaking when he stopped, took a moment to inhale, smile down at Sam, and then fuck him, deeper, harder. 

Each slide in felt like Dean was reaching for his heart, the thick slide inside of him made him lift his hips to meet it, like if he pushed forward, Dean would go even deeper. Sam wrapped his legs around him tightly, instinct driving him to keep Dean close as he could. The heat of Dean's skin against his, so smooth, wet with sweat, so they slid and twisted against each other, making Sam hold Dean harder, until Dean broke away, threw his head back and shouted Sam's name, quivering and shaking, grinding down, hard as he could.

Sam swore he felt Dean swell inside him, his dick jerk and heat fill him...it was nothing like anything he'd ever felt before. "Dean—oh fuck, I feel, I feel you…"

Dean shook again, "Oh, fuck, baby, you're killing me." He bucked once, hard, falling down on Sam, Sam felt his knuckles rub against Dean's belly as he jerked himself off, taking seconds to come in a long wash between them, heat washing up to his chest, and the slide going even slicker. Fuck— 

The first time ever in his life, the first time in all the many, many years of doing sex, it felt real. Felt like being alive. Felt like coming home.

  
phoenix1966


	10. Chapter 10

**Sam**

Sam had a lot on his mind. Something about sex with Dean had him thinking about himself, thinking about Dean. Skinwalkers were two-spirited, he knew that much—not quite the same as weres, who had the ability to communicate with their beast, but pretty close. He knew ‘walkers—and weres—preferred their own company to that of humans, but ‘walkers were more extreme about it. Made it easier to trick with humans. 

Sam frowned. Until now, anyway.

He knew halfbreed 'walkers were killed. He had no idea what weres or shifters did with their half-breeds, or even if they could mate with humans. He didn’t know much about himself at all, besides what he got from Shit and others like him. The books in the cabin's shelves made him curious—wondered if there was information in them about monsters who changed. 

He was definitely not going to ask Dean—he was not having that human explain what it mean to be skinwalker to him—that would add to the heap of humiliation he already felt for being a fucking freak slave. So today, he was going to try to change again, and maybe a little bit if what Fast had tried to teach him would take hold. 

Sam was a good ways into the woods now, counting on the trees and undergrowth to hide him from sight, though he'd probably feel Dean if he headed his direction anyways. It was just, he felt self-conscious. He couldn’t imagine standing in front of Dean and straining to become a monster under his eyes. Sam shook his head. Not the way to think of it, not if he wanted to find peace with his beast. 

Deep enough into the wood, Sam came across a small, protected clearing, a natural circle made of shrubs and saplings. He stamped a circle into the snow before taking his clothes off and stacking them neatly to the side. It was cold enough to send a shiver through him; he was assaulted by a brief flash of memory—a short-sleeved, shiny pink dress, its hem stiff with ice, his hair hanging in his face, beads of ice on the ends clicking as he shivered— 

He shook his head hard, chasing away lousy, worthless memories. He didn't need reminders like that right now. He needed calm, and some shit about centering himself if he correctly remembered what Fast had said. Sam did all the things Fast said to do—he closed his eyes and inhaled, scenting the snow, the trees, a few small animals, the soil they disturbed; marked them and let them go, they were part of him, but not the biggest part.

He felt the wind, nothing but bitter pinpricks of cold at first, then gradually felt the wind's gliding movement over his skin, the way it flowed over him like a loving touch. He heard the sound of the snow, squeaking quietly as it moved, of ice melting, drip...drip...drip….

 _breathe in breathe out..._ felt his heart beat, _felt the breath inside, the pain inside, how it felt when it grew, how it felt to live with rage, RAGE all the time, how it felt right before the silver kicked in and want to KILL KILL THEM—_

"Shit!" Sam stood the crushed-down snow, shivering, his animal teeth pricking the inside of his human mouth and bloody drool warm on his chin. His skin still felt like it was writhing over his bones like a worm on a hot plate. JeezusDamn it, he’d felt like he’d just been ripped from Seli’s hands. The hatred, the pain—it was so big it was torture, and he didn't know how this fucking change thing worked, or if he wanted to change; he _hurt,_ and was terrified of changing at the same time. Fastmile had harped on calming himself, becoming one with his beast, how was that supposed to happen when anytime he relaxed the iron grip he had on himself all he could think of was blood and revenge?

He didn't even know if he had a full spirit inside him. Maybe these freakish half-reactions were all he had left. The thought was devastating. It made him feel like he was dragging a corpse around inside... _no._

No, no, no. The beast was there. He was there inside, and whole. Sam knew he just had to—

"Sam! Where you at, Sammy?"

Get dressed and get back before Dean set the woods on fire looking for him. 

=@=

"Baby, come on, let's get going. I wanna be back before dark." 

"Coming," Sam yelled back. "I'm just getting my boots on. And I'm a fucking grown man, stop calling me baby, damn it." 

Dean had decided that they'd need to restock what they could for whoever came after them, which Sam thought was too nice of him. Hell, let whoever came next get their own, like Dean and he had had to do. But, fine, Dean was right, guess it wasn't really nice to leave the cabin empty of whatever supplies were available. So, restock the wood, at least, and Dean planned to leave a jerrican of fatfuel behind. Dean was going to let the moles know about the broken spell they'd never managed to fix as soon as he got back to the chapter house. 

Dean, Sam smirked. So responsible. Such a soft-hearted being.

They'd spent the first part of the morning dragging clumps of large fallen branches into a pile, and now Dean was now chopping the branches into manageable sections. Sam was watching him, fascinated by the way his cheeks glowed red with the exertion, and how the flush and the slight sheen of sweat made his eyes a bright green. He'd seen it before, looking up at Dean spread over him. Every time, just like now, Sam thought he looked so fucking pretty, it was heart-stopping. 

Leaning on Lucille, Sam absently stroked her rust-pocked rear fender, thinking about fucking Dean so of course the guy looked up just in time to catch Sam's doofy grin. He shot Dean the bird when he cooed, "Look at you, loving on my Lucille."

"Shut up, before I grab the other love of your life and shoot your balls off," Sam growled, fighting back a grin as Dean went off into laughter. 

"Who, Baby? My little darlin' would never be a party to me losing my balls. Besides, she know how much _you_ love them," Dean winked, and giggled as he dodged a snowball handily. 

Sam decided he'd better do something more worthwhile then perv on Dean's ass, so he settled in to getting some coffee ready, setting the pot at the edge of the fire they'd built. He didn't mind doing these little things for Dean; he knew Dean would be craving something hot when he finished. He figured he might was well set up the bag of sandwiches they'd made as well—more smoked rabbit, along with some slices of cheese they'd found, and bread that had been frozen and forgotten by the last occupant—the douchebag. 

The coffee was nearly ready by the time Sam got out a pair of metal mugs, and he set the sandwiches down on a flat-topped rock close to the fire to warm.

Glancing up at Dean, Sam saw that he had quite a pile of firewood ready and decided it was time to step in; he'd load Lucille up while Dean had his lunch, and then—

A crack coming from the woods behind him brought him to his feet. The noise came from the opposite side of the clearing. He stepped closer to the sound, stopped to listen and to sniff—a rabbit? A deer, maybe, it sounded heavy and the movement was higher up in the bush than a rabbit's—he jerked backwards, almost falling over, when something skittered out of the underbrush on all fours. Sam thought it was a coyote at first, until it lunged upright. With that movement, it hit him—the smell he'd never forget. 

"Eater!" he shouted. "Dean!"

Dean wheeled about, already pulling Baby from her holster as he whirled towards Sam, primed to pull off a shot when he was struck, going down under the squirming weight. 

It shouldn't be possible, but there they were, a whole whizbang of Eaters, milling about, getting in each others' way as they fought each other to take Dean down and finish him off, momentarily ignoring Sam for the prey that they already had in their clutches.

Sam sprinted towards him, ready to rip the monsters' arms off, when he was hit, _hard;_ felt like that time a john ran his truck into him. Sam's feet flew out from under him, and teeth sank into the arm he'd thrown up to protect his throat; he screamed as the teeth ripped through fabric and down, and latched onto muscle. The Eater set its teeth in deeper and pulled, dragging Sam over the ground, smashing him into rocks and trees as it went scuttling for the deeper woods. Sam managed to pull loose, shredding what was left of his coat, and snatched up the monster trying to eat him. He snapped its stupid stalk of a neck with pleasure.

Sam ripped the shredded mess of coat hanging from him and tossed it away, ready to run for Dean when another Eater was on him. Knocking him forward with the violence of its unexpected attack, it slammed Sam's head full-force into a tree trunk. 

Sam sank into blackness—a small part of him coaxing him to let go and sink all the way. He could have, but Sam knew monsters were ripping away at Dean while he was sinking into darkness. It was too much to bear. He beat against the sucking darkness, throwing his rage at it; he took the fear he'd felt when his mother died, all of the pain he experienced after that, every humiliation large and small, all his _sorrow,_ every single crumb of the unknown, growing feeling he had for Dean, Dean who was trying to save him, Dean his _mate._ Sam turned it into a sword, and tore through the dark trying to drown him, ripped through the bonds holding him down. 

Something changed deep inside of him, threw shackles off and grew.

Rowena had been right when she warned him changing might hurt—the pain like nothing he'd ever felt before, even that time a sorcerer had tried to harness his hidden power, whatever that was. He staggered upright, trying to get to his feet and get back to Dean, but his body insisted it was dying, that he wasn't breathing, even though he could feel breath hot in his throat, hear the panting breaths he took. 

Sam took a step, fell again. This time, he couldn't get up.

A roar vibrated inside his head, and his whole self shivered. Something inside him whipped around crazily—it hurt like he was being clawed apart from the inside. Whatever it was in the dark hit him with a punch like a pile-driver. It yowled, _WAKE UP._

He woke to waves of pain twisting his gut; the twisting, distorted feeling flowed over him and down each limb. His back, his neck, his head...his skin was first on fire, then ice-cold, then itched like he'd have to tear every square inch off, and then….

Then blessed relief poured over him in a warm, soothing wave that ended with a flick of his tail. 

Tail? He opened his mouth, intending to say 'What the fuck?', but a bizarre, inhuman noise spilled out of him instead, paralyzing himself and the Eaters streaking toward him. A couple of the monsters turned on their heels, raced hell-bent away, but one ran straight at him, over-long tongue lolling out of a wet, open mouth, screeching like mad. 

Sam reared back, spread his razor-tipped paws wide. His whiskers curled back with silent laughter, golden eyes narrowed. This was going to be _fun._

**Dean**

Dean snapped awake—his dad was calling him, and boy, he was _pissed._ Dean staggered to his feet, trying to puzzle out if he'd fallen asleep on guard duty again, or fuck, did he forget to clean the damn guns? "Yeah, dad, I'm awake, I'm awake—" 

Something smashed into him, bowling him over. Dean went with it, rolling until he was clear to jump to his feet with his Colt pointed outward into the dark. He heard a scream—Sam! He swung around, gun pointed, safety off, glaring into the night until he saw Sam.

He was struggling with something, something that was locked onto the arm Sam had up to protect his throat. It tore through Sam's coat, sending streamers of material dropping to the ground and a spray of blood in the air, black in the shadows under the trees. Dean blasted the dark shape and it dropped, just as the thing that had knocked him over the first time barreled into him again. He shot again, saw Sam was free, saw him yank something upright and break its neck, then rip off his shredded coat and throw it away.

A black shadow leaped out at Dean, mouth wide and teeth gleaming in the firelight. Jeez fuck—Eaters! How? 

He was going to die out here in the snow, eaten by ugly fucking monsters who weren't even supposed to exist anymore, and just when life was getting good. Fucking Winchester luck….

"Sam," Dean whispered, closing his eyes. He fully expected never to open them again. 

His plans to die quietly and bravely went out the window when one of the fuckers landed on his chest, pawing for a grip and shredding his jacket—and his chest, felt like. He couldn't hold back a scream when its claws went through his coat and into his chest. The damn freak smelled like shit and blood, and it screamed, wild and unhinged, right into his face before clamping down. 

Dean howled, waiting for more pain to rip through him, but by a minor miracle, the Eater missed his neck, and instead hooked its teeth into Dean's collar. As the Eater threw its head back, the collar ripped loose, showering Dean with clouds of chopped feathers and fabric. All around him, he could see Eaters ganging up; their frantic moves blocking each other the only thing that had kept him from being eaten alive yet. The circle broke and Dean prepared himself for the end. 

Instead of the monsters falling on him to tear him apart, the circle of Eaters went flying in every direction. Dean gasped and blinked frantically when a hot spray of blood and a small weight thumped down on him—a torn off Eater's hand landed palm-down on his face. He ripped it off and threw it—hard—and jumped to his feet, clutching at his chest in way that would have been embarrassing if he wasn't sure he was going to make it out of this shit alive. 

A high-pitched, yowling sound filled the air and nearly made him piss himself—looking past the bits of Eater scattered around him he saw—

What the fuck _was_ he seeing?

A huge black animal was ripping through the Eaters, their thin, sinewy bodies flying apart like they were being shot out of a shredder. The thing reared back, and one huge, blacker-than-black paw, tipped with razors, shredded an Eaters chest with one blow. 

In minutes there were no active Eaters left—just body parts and shivering corpses, taking their time about dying. 

The black thing flowed over red snow and bloody chunks, stopping when it was face to face with Dean. Dean blinked, trying to clear blood and gunk from his eyes. The thing eyed Dean. The amount of intelligence in the animal's eyes was unnerving. Gold, red, green, and blue wheeled in its eyes like wild fireworks. It blinked and the fireworks settled, green-blue-gray, eyes looked down on him. Eyes that were strangely familiar.

The narrow head dipped closer, neat, rounded ears flicked back and forth. Long, elegant whiskers curved towards him in a feline smile. It set a giant paw atop Dean and gently flexed, a deep rolling 'muuuhrr' thundering through its chest. 

Purring?

Dean panted, fear slowly fading..."Sam?"

**Sam**  
The Eaters were all down, dead or dying, so Sam grabbed the back of Dean's coat and started to pull Dean away from the corpses. 

Dean let him know in no uncertain terms this was absolutely _not_ a good idea. He screamed. "FUCK! Oh, asshole, fuck, that hurts JeezDamn it!" Dean made a pitiful sound; he whimpered,"Sammy, my chest hurts." before his eyes rolled back in a faint.

Sam yowled. Frantic with fear, he danced sideways away from Dean, before he managed to control himself. 

_Check him, stop crying, yes. His Dean needed him._ He straddled Dean, sniffing at his face, his chest. Closing his eyes to concentrate, Sam pressed his nose against Dean's, testing to see if he was breathing,. He felt warm hands on his cheeks, and opened his eyes to see that Dean's were inches from his face.

"C'mon, Sammy, let go. It'll be okay now, I promise. Let him go and help me to the truck, alright? I really don't want to bleed to death out here." 

Sam whined. Dean's chest was a mess of blood and meat and shredded fabric. And he'd probably made worse by bumping Dean over the ground. But what was he supposed to do? How to help?

_The truck. Get there. But. No hands, no way to carry him. What? What?_

_Change! Yes, yes, change._

_How…_

_How did he change back?_

Staring down at Dean and finding his open eyes looking up at him, Sam froze. Dean's eyes were dark, glazed, but focused on him like magnets. "Fuck, you're beautiful," he muttered. "Eyes...like tha sun reflectin' offa fuckin' sea…." 

His eyes closed and he slumped, dead-weight and out like a light. Sam was terrified—he wanted to to pick Dean up in his arms, Dean needed him, he _needed_ Sam to carry him. A slight shudder started under his Sam's scalp, a creeping sensation bloomed between his shoulders and shivered down his spine, and finally swept him from nose to tail. Then there was no tail, and suddenly it was just him again, Sam, naked and wrapped around Dean, surrounded by dead monsters at the edge of their fire. 

"Jee-Jeez-Jeeezus." Sam stuttered with the sudden cold. Here he was, stark-naked and out of luck, since he'd reduced his clothes to a tangle of rags between the Eaters and his changing. He swiveled around, and spotted Lucille not far off. They'd been dragged only a short distance—there at least was a little bit of luck. He hefted Dean in his arms, and walked carefully, but quickly, as he could. 

He got Dean into the truck without spilling too much more blood. Dean's head lolled on his shoulder, thumping against the window as Sam propped him up and wrapped him in the blanket they kept in the cab. Sam ran around to the driver's side, cringing when his naked ass touched the ice-cold vinyl seat. He could feel his damn junk trying to shrink up inside him. How the fuck did the heater thing work? 

Well, first turn the truck on. "Yes, okay. Here we go." Sam stared at the wheel, the keys dangling in the ignition, waiting to be turned. "Fuck me." 

He had no idea what to do next. All this time they'd been stuck out on this mountain-side and neither one of them had ever thought to say, 'Hey, know what? Driving lessons might come in handy'. _FUCK._

Throwing up a prayer to anything listening, Sam turned the key, and Lucille rumbled to life, sounding put out that Dean wasn't behind the wheel. "C'mon, girl, you know me, you like me, I make Dean haa-appyy…" he crooned to her, and tried to remember what Dean did when he drove. Damn it, he should have spent less time staring at Dean's dick—

He put his foot on the little pedal, pressed it down and wrestled with the stick thing on the steering wheel, yanking it until it reached **D** because that meant drive, like he knew the **R** meant go backwards. Sam had no idea what the **N** meant but he didn't need that—he needed to go forward, like, right now. He switched his foot to the pedal that made the truck move forward—it shot forward, scaring him, so he slammed his foot on the other pedal, which brought them to a stop—hard. "Oh, fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck—"

They moved forward, and this time, Sam tried to ease his foot to the pedal, but wasn't terribly successful at the _easing_ business. At least he kept them moving.

It was terrifying. Slamming forward, slamming to a stop when he was afraid they were going too fast, yanking the wheel back and forth to make it follow the long curve in the road, but finally, JeezThank, they were on the road to the cabin, which he'd not noticed until this very fucking damn minute was a washboard of ruts, and also filled with holes that Dean had somehow always missed, but he hit every fucking one. He kept glancing at Dean in a panic, terrified that he was killing him by slamming him around the cab. 

Finally, Sam came to one final, complete stop—he was practically standing on the stopping pedal when he turned the truck off. Lucille screeched at him—she must hate his guts now, but Dean was what mattered right now, all that mattered. Sam leaped out of the truck and ran around to the side, pulling Dean free as gently as he could. 

It was a shaky, frightening walk, up the porch stairs, praying not to slip on a ptch if ice, then staring at the froint door nad wondering ho he was going to get inside with his hands full. He set Dean carefully, carefully on his feet and almost cheered when the door swung open without him dropping Dean. He glanced at the stairs and decided fuck, no, he'd only make things worse than they were now.

Sam set Dean up on the couch as gently as he could before grabbing a knife from the kitchen to slice free the remnants of Dean's coat and shirts. 

Dean was lucky—the Eater had shredded his clothes, but only scratched him, thank Jeezus for that silly puffy coat. Of course, those scratches went pretty deep, and Sam, going by the only first aid he'd ever learned to give, dumped a shit-load of alcohol on them. Dean squirmed and moaned in his sleep, but thankfully, never fully woke.

Sam sprinted up to their bedroom, tearing through the room and through Dean's bag until he found a first aid kit, sent up thanks to whatever might be listening when he found needles and sutures inside. Lucky for him and Dean both, at least one of the owners had been okay with teaching Sam some basic stuff, like how to do stitches. 'Course, that was mostly because he was a drunk, and rarely had the steady hand needed for it.

Sam gathered the bag and a few towels, and ran out the door, sprinting back into the room to throw on a pair of Dean's jeans and a t-shirt before hurrying downstairs again. Clothes could be soothing, sometimes. And warm,

Downstairs, he mopped up the mess of blood and alcohol from Dean's chest and inspected the wounds. Dean had been very lucky—the monster's claws had mostly skated across the surface of his skin, and only hooked deep in a couple of places. Dean needed cleaning, and bandages, and only a few stitches. Sam dropped his head against an unmarked spot on Dean's shoulder, breathing deep. It hit him all at once—his own injury, burning as the skin and muscle worked hard to knit itself together, being afraid he'd lost Dean, meeting again the frightening monster of his pup-hood.

Sam sat staring at Dean, watching him sleep, remembering how he'd felt when he thought Dean was going to be eaten. How his whole body vibrated with knowing that Dean was _mate_. He didn't know a damn thing about himself, about skinwalkers at all—but he knew that Dean was his, and that he couldn't live without him, wouldn't want to. 

And there was one other thing that he'd somehow managed to shove to one corner of his mind as he wrestled Lucille down the road with the most precious cargo in all the world….

He'd changed! And he wasn't a dog of any kind. Somehow, being able to change had unlocked a memory long buried; Seli-ma had been a cougar as well, and she'd been lovely, lithe and all shades of gold, like her hair—like the reflection of the moon on water. And of course he'd been different from her—of course. All black, like the night, from nose to tail-tip. An outward sign of how different he was from everyone else. He thought about it, rolled it over in his mind, batting it this way and that and decided that he was glad to finally know his beast, and he didn't care anymore that he was a freak. He was his own being, with a beautiful beast and an amazing mate. Life was the best it had ever been, way, way better than a freak like him deserved. 

=@=

Dean picked at the itchy stitches on his chest and sighed dramatically.

Sam had come to realize a bored, achy, Dean was a dangerous Dean—a Dean who had apparently got into the liquor, and that pissed Sam off. Alcohol and painkillers didn't mix—a lesson he was sure Dean must have learned at some point hunting with his dad.

Sam slapped Dean's hand away from his chest a few times before Dean finally threw his head back with a frustrated huff. After a long minute, he asked, "So...turns out you're not a dog. How about that? You're a cat. A cougar...a black one. A huge, black cougar with huge green more than just green? eyes. Hunh, I'm tellin' you, this whole escapade just gets better and better. I mean, you being a cougar's not crazy. Skinwalkers can be anything, Rowena said so—bear, wolf, otter. I don't know about cows, never heard about cows. Cow walkers. Heh-heh. That'd be funny...or chickens! Giant old chickens...would a skinwalker-chicken lay eggs? _Can they lay eggs?_ And if they could, would they?"

"Oh my Jeezus, shut up, Dean."

"Why? I'm just thinking, and speaking of thinking, you know what? I think I like that mole, riii-iight there—" 

Dean reached out and stabbed Sam a few times in the face, trying to tap the mole he was fixated on, finger wavering from Sam's nose to his cheek to dangerously close to his eye. Sam snorted, waved Dean's hand away like it was a bothersome gnat. "Okay, that's it. Nap time for Dean." 

He pushed Dean back onto the bed, where he curled up like a pup, snuffling happily into his pillow. "You take good care of me. Love you." He flailed a hand in Sam's general direction, slapping his knee. Sam winced, waiting for it to throb in pain, but it didn't. All he felt was Dean's warm fingers stroking aimlessly over his kneecap.

"Uh-hum. You too," he murmured, tucking Dean's hand under the blanket. In seconds, he was snoring away.

"JeezusThank," Sam muttered. He stared at Dean for a moment. Shrugged. Stripped out of his clothes and concentrated on feeling...smooth was the only way he could describe it. That creeping, warming feeling, swept over him, and he was on four feet again. He jumped up onto the bed, slithering and swaying until he got in the most comfortable position —close to Dean without hurting him, and joined him in sleep, one ear out for trouble, and his furry chin resting on Dean's thigh.

=@=

"Hrrr…" One singular beam of demonic sunlight made it through the blinds—just bright enough to drag Sam out of his comfy sleep. He woke, growling softly under his breath, wiping at his face, and realizing what poked him in the eye was a finger, not a paw. Sometime during the night, his beast had receded, and that worried him. Was that normal? Or was it a loss of control? How much control did he have over his beast, he wondered. Was that even the right word?

What would it be like to let his beast roam free? He really should know what that felt like, shouldn't he? He should do a little...practice or something. Get comfortable, find out what it meant to share spirits. 

Sam slipped out of bed, not bothering to throw anything on—he was only going to change, and there was no one around for miles, since the pack moved on a few weeks ago. He trotted out the door, cursing softly under his breath when his feet left the porch and hit bare ground. The cold he could deal with, but the way the mud squished between his toes—"Gack." So fucking gross. 

Sam picked up the pace and before long, he was in a thick section of wood—nothing but broken, winter killed underbrush around him. He stamped down snow and shoved branches aside, to give himself space if he needed it. And now...Sam took a deep breath. Now he was nervous for some reason. "Okay, okay, you've done this, it's a snap, just...let go," Sam mumbled, shaking himself out, from shoulders to fingertips, and breathing deeply. In his mind, Dean was smiling at him, murmuring, _'Do it. Just let go, Sammy'…._

Sam breathed in, slowly, deliberately, and then, a wave of warmth swept over him. He fell forward, dropping to hands and knees on the slush, not even registering the gooey, thick mud, and dirty snow. Sam shivered, feeling the change as a long rolling wave that ended with—a flick of his tail. 

"Mhuuurr." Felt good, nice, smooth, like sliding on ice down a long, straight, river. Here he was, all over, outside and in. _Good._

He dashed away, deeper into the woods, searching out all the lovely smells streaming through his nose, his eyes picking out the smallest movement, from a small mouse sprinting up a tree trunk, to the gray flick of a coyote's tail heading quickly in a direction away from him. _Coward._ He coughed out a combination of chuckle and purr, and kept moving. 

There, a scent. Food, or soon to be, and at that moment, his stomach howled. He tossed his head, sniffing deeply. There, towards the edge of the woods—and leaped off after it. They zigged and zagged, over bushes and weaving through tree trunks, leaping over logs and skating through puddles of mud as a desperate rabbit tried to escape him.

He put on a burst of speed, and snagged the rabbit as they both leaped into the air to clear a tumble of fallen branches—tripped into the rabbit actually, and instinctively gripped it in his paws. It wiggled and jerked, and he dug his claws in deeper, accidentally tearing bits off until the rabbit finally went still—its rapidly beating heart slowing with blood-loss. 

He dropped it, tilting his head at the tangled length of fur and bones and blood. He dipped his head, meaning to pick it up, but accidentally crushed the little skull. His mouth filled with blood, and hair and bone—he dropped it again, and stopped before trying to clear his mouth. It was food, right? It was...his. Prey, it was...breakfast. _Breakfast!_ For his mate. 

_Mate..._ he purred, the sound echoing around the small clearing. Mate, smelled so good, felt so good. His mate needed breakfast. He would bring it. 

He picked up the poor shredded rabbit, and headed proudly to the cabin. 

At the porch steps, he dropped the rabbit, troubled. His mate wouldn't, or couldn't, eat raw meat. _Bad._

He'd need hands to cook this meat. He dipped his head, staring at the raw meat, licking his lips, and thinking, 'this raw meat, the taste...not so good? shouldn't it taste better?' He did a feline equivalent of a shrug, and closed his eyes, preparing to change for his mate.

=@=

"Um...thanks for the rabbit...stew, I guess?"

Sam stared at the bowl of clear soup, at the few shreds of meat floating in it, the overabundance of carrots. He could feel his cheeks burn as he blushed. "Yeah, you're uh, welcome...yeah."

The changing thing was easier as he thought it'd be, but fine motor skills were definitely beyond his range yet. The mangled rabbit he'd brought back had barely retained enough meat on its bones to add any flavor or protein to the soup Sam had tried to make. 

The way what was left of the rabbit looked had Dean— _Dean,_ of all people—going green when he dropped it on the kitchen counter. It really had looked kind of horrible. And raw rabbit hadn't tasted at all like Sam had expected, either. He thought that in his wild form he'd love it, all that meat and fresh blood. But all it was was...edible. Sort of. So much for blood lust. 

Sam shuddered, and scrubbed his tongue around the inside of his mouth again. Sighing, he glanced over at Dean, sitting at the counter, trying to eat the soup and totally unaware of Sam's small identity crisis. 

Dean was staring out of the kitchen window, a little smile on his face, bobbing his head to one of his music tapes; Sam could just catch a rumbling beat, and something about 'round my back door' through the earmuff things on a string he wore. Every few seconds, he'd sip broth and occasionally spear a chunk of carrot from the stew. He looked kind of goofy, what with the little smile, and his cheeks stuffed with mashed carrots. Mostly though, he looked content, and really, really, really pretty, the way the sun hit his eyelashes….

Sam glanced down at his own bowl of watery soup, then at Dean smiling, and shrugged. He'd do better next time. He could do this.

Dean looked up with an even wider grin and said, "Really though, thanks for lunch, babe. It's really...warm."

Sam just threw his head back and laughed. JeezusKris—he loved this man. 

_Wait. What?_ Loved? 

=@=

"It stay...stayeth the be-bleeding of wonds-- _wounds_ \--and clen—cleaneth ulkers— _ulcers_ and sores." Sam frowned at the line in the crumbly, yellow book. Herbs. Who knew they could be so aggravating? Still, when a time came that Dean was mauled because he couldn't be bothered to think before acting, knowing what herbs to use, and exactly how to use them, would come in handy. 

Sam stopped, rewound the thought in his head, and laughed at himself. What the fuck—way back at the end of SpringDay, when Dean rescued him, he wouldn't even have been be able to read the darn book, and now here he was, having the nerve to complain the book was boring. He glanced over at Dean and found him looking over the back of the couch, one of those molar exposing grins on his face, and his eyes dancing with pride. Sam immediately felt better.

"Wow. You're good, babe. I think you've got this reading thing down. I knew you would, smart kid like you. Beauty and brains. And brawn. Damn, I hate you got so tall, how the hell did that happen?"

"I'd say somebody took good care of me this WinterDay." Sam said, and maybe he stretched a little, came up on his toes just a smidge. It felt good to be able to rest his chin atop Dean's head, funnier still to hold him out of reach with one arm. Dean giggled, fully aware of Sam and his sense of humor, and how much Sam liked making him laugh.

"Yeah." Dean's grin simmered to a warm smile. "It was my pleasure. Sasquatch. Oh—excuse me, Bagheera."

Sam cast him a confused look, wondering what a baggerah was, but Dean just waved his hand and chuckled. "Boy, wait until we get to Bobby's non-working-just-for-fun library. It's gonna be like a Name Day party every day for you." 

Sam sighed. Name Day? That must be something good, judging by Dean's grin. Of course, it was another thing Sam knew nothing about, but that Dean took for granted he did.

Dean got up from the couch, wincing slightly. Though the tears on his chest had healed nicely—clean and smooth—Sam could tell by the way Dean moved they still pulled a bit, just enough to remind Sam and Dean both of how close Dean had come to falling to the Eaters. Sam hated them for that. At times like this, he hated himself for healing so well, and wished he could pass it to Dean.

Sometimes, when Dean was deep in sleep, Sam would lightly trace the scars on Dean's body, following the traces of claws, teeth, and human weapons had left there. The story of Dean's life was told in his skin—Sam's was nearly a blank book. He had a scar; one or two that could be seen, but most he carried deep inside, where no one would ever see. The blessing, and curse, of a skinwalker's healing ability.

=@=

"Hey, Sam." 

Sam looked up at Dean—he'd been watching as Dean as disassembled Baby, working an oily rag around the gun's various parts, neatly laid out on a towel in front of him. Sam was supposed to be taking notes on how to clean the gun; he had been shooting with her, because Dean insisted. He'd told Sam more of her history while they worked on target practice. Sam knew that she was a Colt 1911, that her grips were ivory, just like Sam had thought when he'd first seen the gun. He knew that Dean's dad had found her one day on the side of the road, looking like she'd been carefully placed there by someone, as if he'd been meant to find her. 

His dad never named her, Dean said, but when Dean was a little kid, his dad had had a big old black car he'd called Baby. When Dean was gifted the Colt, he'd started calling her Baby, after the original. The original Baby had been lost; crashed in a ditch on a terrible hunt gone wrong. Dean barely recalled that car now. He just had vague memories of having felt at home in her, safe, and secure, when he was a little kid.

Then one day his dad came chugging up in Lucille, ugly as sin, but hardy as fuck, and Dean had fallen in love. Sam thought it was cute the way Dean named everything. Sam, he would have called the gun Gun and the truck Truck, and been okay with that. Though here he was, spending one WinterDay season with Dean, and now he was calling both hunks of metal 'she' like a damn fool. 

Dean pushed the parts towards Sam, and cocked an eyebrow, meaning for Sam to assemble his Baby again. While he did that, Dean said, "We'll be moving out in a few days. Time to get out and face the world. And keep the MoLs from docking my pay. Late delivery, ate up half-goods—I hope they're not gonna be the prissy little shits they can be."

Sam stopped, his hands frozen on the Colt. "Well. Could give them something unique, like a—"

"Fucking finish that stupid thought, and I knock you off your feet—I can still take you, Bagheera."

"You don't even know what I was going to say!"

"I do, Sam. And after everything you've been through in this life, if you think for one minute Imma let you go to a group like the Men of Letters, you're nuts. I know it probably doesn't mean to you what it means to me, but I love you. And not like, 'I love you man', I mean, I...y'know, _love_ you. Sorry, sorry, you don't have to say anything. I know our whole hooking up, this whole time spent together is all about 'maybe' to you, but it's not like that to me. Don;t you worry, though, I'd never force my feelings on you. Okay?"

Sam silently checked everything was reassembled correctly, checking the slide action, and that the safety was on. Dean nodded approvingly, and Sam passed the gun back, letting Dean insert the magazine. Sam waited until he had Dean's attention again. He said,"You know how weres and skinwalkers are made to find a partner and mate for life? How most of them are physically incapable of being with anyone other than their mate after that?"

Dean nodded, and Sam took a deep breath before going on. 

"And you know humans don't have that drive to mate for life in that way, so can't ever be mated like that to a super?"

"Yeah, Sam I get it—you don't want more than _Maybe_ with me, you just want to fuck around. Okay, I get it."

"No! I'm telling you, no matter what the lore says, or the Men of Letters say, as far as you and me go, we're mated. You understand? As far as I'm concerned, as far as my beast is concerned, we're mates. It's all I need to know. I love you too."

Dean stared at Sam for so long, Sam began to wish he'd kept his mouth shut. What exactly had Dean meant by _I love you_ then?

"Sam, I never ever thought there'd be a point in my life where I'd say this, and mean it with every single molecule of my being but, _JeezusThank!"_ Dean tipped his head back and yelled at the ceiling, as loud as he could,"THANK YOU."

Sam stood, his hands planted wide on the counter, and waited for Dean to come to him. Dean wrapped his arms around Sam, and held him tightly. Sam felt his breath against his neck, warm and shaky with emotion that Sam felt, too, He held back, blinked back the stinging in his eyes and echoed silently what Dean said—thank you. 

  
Phoenix1966

 **Dean**  
It was time—the snow had almost completely retreated, though it was still cold enough that most of the mud was still a little frozen. Soon, it would warm up enough to bring a whole new set of problems—driving rain, mudslides, flash flood. So, this was it; it time to go.

They tossed their bags into Lucille's bed, securing what was left of the Menaletters tithe in her truck box. After the MoL goods were secured, Dean went down to the basement to dig up the hex bags Luther had made for Bobby.

Pulling them out of the crumbly, dry soil, he brushed them clean as possible. He blew the last few grains from the bags, and they instantly looked brand new. It felt like they were vibrating on his palm, just dying to grant a wish or destroy an enemy. He was glad they weren't the kind of thing he usually dealt with. Despite feeling that they were...well disposed towards him, they creeped him out. He happily tucked them back into the mail bag. The moment they were and secured, Dean could feel the bags' magic leaving the cabin; felt like a protecting presence drifting away. Their magic had been mild, muted by being buried, but the feeling of security he and Sam had felt probably came from the bags—whatever they were for, they were definitely going to be powerful in skilled hands. 

Dean trotted up the stairs, the sealed bag bouncing against his back. He giggled when he cleared the stairs and saw his boy, and what he was doing.

Sam was practically dancing around the cabin, gathering their stuff, singing to himself. Dean watched—this hardly seemed like the same boy he'd stumbled into this place with at the end of last SpringDay. Sam caught him looking and tossed his hair back. Grinning at Dean, he said, "I checked our room, tidied up, took the peanut butter, a couple of coats, oh, and stole the porn maga-zine and put it in your bag."

"See? Dean said. "Beauty and brains, beauty and brains." He strolled past Sam and slapped his ass. "And sticky fingers, too? Fucking lucked out hard, I did."

Out in the clearing in front of the cabin, Dean stopped, dropped a pinch of orange-tinted powdered amber into his palm, blew it into the air and muttered, _"tego"_ and the cabin shimmered out of sight. 

Sam stood staring narrow-eyed at the blank spot for a bit, before saying, "When we fist pulled in here, it took longer to un-hide the cabin, with hands, and piling the powder just so, and then the Latin, and the blowing powder all over—here just now, you flung the powder out all whatthefuckever, and only said one word. Umm…" his forehead wrinkled. _"Hide?"_

"Well, I uh," Dean coughed. "Y'know, was maybe showing off a little…"

"Such a dork," Sam said, fondness coloring his tone. "Anyway, this time I get to pick the music, right?" he crowed, and took off running towards the truck; Dean ran after, shouting at him. 

"No! Never! It's my truck, Sam. Driver picks the music!"

Sam paid him no mind. He jumped in, and shoved a tape into the deck, laughing in a way Dean hadn't known he could. It was definitely an evil laugh. And then to make it worse, the tune rolling out of Lucille's speakers, a little tinny with age, made him groan. "Aww, Sam. I hate this one, I can't even believe I kept this cassette. Do you know how many times I had to listen to it? Sometimes, Dad had shit taste."

"Shhh-" Sam said as the opening bars gave way to lyrics, [ I am a passenger, and I ride and I ride...](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1r08Ca8fk5Y) "I like it. I don't understand everything he says, but I like it."

He was quiet and Dean glanced over to check if he'd fallen asleep already. But he was staring out the window, his head tilted to the sky, and tapping his knee in time with the beat. He glanced over at Dean, smiled wide in that way Dean loved to see. 

"Hey, Dean, do you know what an ocean is?"

"An ocean? You don't...well, yeah, it's. It's like a lake, only really salty, and so huge you can't even see the other side of it. I saw the ocean once. It was a little scary, it was so big, and the water moved constantly. The bank was a giant, flat stretch of sand, and went on for miles and miles, past the point I could see. It smelled...weird, a little fishy, salty, I'm not sure how to describe that. You could feel the salt on your lips when you licked them, and the wind kept throwing ocean mist in your face. Walking on the banks was like trying to walk through sugar. Didn't taste like sugar though," he laughed, "and boy, not something you wanted to get in your ass crack—"

"Okay, thanks! Does everything boil down to sex for you?"

Dean thought about that, before shrugging. "Yes?"

Sam laughed. "You are such a hound. Never mind the ocean, then, Dean."

Dean pulled over to the side of the road, carefully steering Lucille to a safe place he could put her into park. He tapped Sam's knee, asked him to go into the glove compartment. "There's a map in there, get it out for me, please?" 

He took the map, and unfolded it across their laps with a smile. It was hand-drawn, something he'd been working on for years—ever since he'd been dragged into the Men of Letters life by Bobby. "This map is something I've been working on my own, quite a long time now. I've been a lot of places, and I've marked them all here. There're a lot of places I haven't been. I've been thinking...maybe you want to see some places too. After we've seen the ocean?"

"What about Bobby's hex bags? The MenofLetters' mail?"

"All that will be here when we get back. Whataya say?"

Sam grinned, wide as he could, his heart felt like it was filling his chest. "Okay, yeah. Sounds good."

Dean winked and threw Lucille back into drive. "Okay then. Road trip—never mind, I'll explain later."

  
phoenix1966


	11. Chapter 11

  
Phoenix1966 

Sam was off somewhere with Bobby, probably digging through the rare books like he was panning for gold. Who woulda thought when he'd spent the winter teaching the kid to read, it would have come back to bite Dean in the ass this way? 

Dean liked telling Sam that he didn't get it, this friggin' urge to read, but he had a secret, one he'd never share with Sam—there were a few books he came back to visit regularly, books by some old-time Before writers like Bradbury and Vonnegut. Had one stashed under the mattress right now, actually. Dean idly thought about heading back to their rooms, his groin pulled tight at the thought, but nah, Sam was up to his incisors in ‘walker lore with Bobby, so that pleasant thought was out. Maybe he'd just give Baby a thorough cleaning, check out that sweet little Taurus Bobby scrounged up for Sammy...or head out to the garage and finally pick a vehicle that would run on fatfuel, seeing how gas was gonna be rare as hen's teeth pretty damn soon….

A soft weight landed on his shoulder, he was pleasantly inundated with a floral smell, sort of roses and lavender mixed with a hint of sage—the tools of Missouri's trade. 

"Hello, dear. How are you doing this night?"

"Good, Miz, good. Waiting for Sam to pull his head outta the books. I might head to the kitchen and see what Cookie left out while I'm waiting." 

"Boy, Cookie will take a spoon to your ass if you dig into one of his cakes again without permission." 

"Yeah, so that's why he left me brownies instead—am I right?"

"Who's the psychic here? You sure you don't have a little bit of shine yourself?" Missouri teased, and Dean laughed along with her. If ever there was a psychic void, it was him. 

"So, tell me the truth, hon. How are you boys doing?" she asked, sitting herself next to Dean.

He cut a look at her, started to gently suggest it was none of her business—and deflated. She was a psychic, powerful enough to track a body from one coast to another. Wasn't like she didn't know him inside and out. Dean told her the truth. "I'm in love with Sam. Like, can't-imagine-life-without-him, kind of love. You know." 

She nodded. "How does that make you feel?"

"Like it was—oh Jeez. Like it was something that was meant to be. Hearts and flowers. Long walks in the rain." Dean tried to smirk like he was making a joke, but it failed miserably. "Don't make fun of me."

Missouri looked serious, more serious than Dean could remember seeing her look in recent times. She shook her head, saying,"Dean, I think...I do think you and Sam were destined to be together, part of a greater plan that I feel went off the rails somewhere. Maybe not by accident." She didn't explain what she meant by that, she just shrugged and went on. "Anyway, here you are, and you need to stop worrying that Sam's going to take off now that he can meld fully with his beast and can read that—" She snapped her fingers. "Like a natural born scholar, that boy. He's completely and totally stuck on _you,_ fool boy. You better know there's nothing before you as far as Sam's concerned." 

She stood up, stretched, and fixed Dean with one of her patented 'momma-is-damn-serious' looks.' "And I know that feeling is mutual, so I'll spare you having to say it out loud. Seems to me, the two of you are some version of soulmate—y'all each carry a piece of the other, despite his not being totally human. I sure wish we could study it. The fact that you two are soulmates and also—"

Dean tried to interrupt Missouri. He didn't want confirmation of what he'd begun to suspect based on hints dropped by Rowena, quiet speculation on Miz's part, and Bobby's flat out refusal to see or talk about anything concerning Sam and Dean together.

Dean didn't know if he could handle hearing it out loud. 

Missouri stared at him, dark brown eyes going from chocolate to obsidian, then nodded. "Would it make a difference?" she wondered aloud, and Dean didn't answer, just shook his head. It was the truth, and it hurt, but it was his life and he wasn't going to change it for anyone, or pretend that he could live a day without having Sam in every way. This was his life and his choice, and he didn't think he was losing anything by going forward this way.

=@=

He finally managed to pry Sam out of the library, feed him and then shove him out into the sun and air. 

Once they reached the lush gardens the chapter house kept, Dean talked him into stripping, and helped out by snatching bits of clothing out of Sam's hands and hiding them in the bushes and beds winding in and out of the garden paths. 

After Sam was nude, Dean got him to change, which he did in seconds, helped along by Dean reducing him to a helpless puddle of giggling giant—Dean had definitely hit the jackpot finding that ticklish spot on Sam's ribs. It knocked Sam out of his sullen mood, and reminded him that he did like letting his beast go. When he was done stretching, Dean followed up the tickling with a thorough rub under Sam's chin, loving the deep rumble of Sam purring. 

To make up for being such a sap, Sam chased him around the garden, Dean racing and dodging and doing his best to keep out of Sam's reach until he figured Sam had enough exercise. Dean left him lounging on a tree limb, high above his head, golden eyes staring down at him and nothing moving except the tip of his tail, flick-flick-flick. Dean pulled his shirt off and wiped his face, grinning up at Sam when he coughed down at him, irritated, or maybe thoughtful. It was hard to tell. If Sam did have something on his mind, he'd tell Dean what it was in his own time. 

Dean followed the spring towards a natural bowl, lined with trees. He figured the thick branches overhead with their dense leaves would keep him from frying in the sun, so he left his shirt off and splayed out in a thick patch of clover, enjoying the cool, springy bed he lay in.

The constant hum of bees, a gentle breeze skirting around him, and the shifting, dappled sunlight lulled him into a comfortable sleep. 

He was leaning back against the smooth, warm seat of a big, black car, the old car his dad used to have, the one he called Baby. Her engine rumbled soft and sweet, gradually getting louder and louder until if felt like he could feel the rumbling in his bones. It was soothing, and made him feel like he was home. A ticklish, prickly sensation skittered across his cheek, then angled sideways to his mouth. The rumbling increased, and a warm puff of air went up his nose.

Dean opened his eyes, momentarily confused because he hadn't even realized he'd fallen asleep. He was nose to snout with a big, black cougar. Sam snorted a hot breath right into his eyes, then shifted to cover Dean with his naked self, laughing softly. 

"Yeah, you're a real pack a cards," Dean muttered, still muzzy from sleep and so comfortable. Sam spread himself over Dean, warm naked skin sliding against him. Dean's hand floated up and came to rest on Sam's ass; round and fuzzed like a peach, just begging to be squeezed. Sam let out a purr, something he did rarely in his human form. Mostly at times like this, when they were wrapped up in each other like there was no one else in the world. Sam smiled down on him, soft and lazy.

Dean couldn't resist kissing that smile away. He whispered to Sam, "Hey. Wanna have sex?"

Sam answered by licking his way down Dean's body, leaving a warm wet trail of kisses and playful nips down to the waistband of Dean's jeans, before opening them and licking around the pink tip of his already hard and leaking dick. "Soon as you take these off, yeah," he said, pulling at the jeans.

"Good answer," Dean stammered as Sam slid his mouth down over him, easing forward until the head of Dean's dick was nearly lodged in Sam's throat. Looking down at a beautiful sight of Sam, green eyes watering, the tip of his nose and his cheeks going pink as he tried to breathe made him clench all over. And then, Sam purred, an amazing little trick they'd discovered while leisurely fucking in the truckbed one night. Sam had been mortified, almost launching himself out of the trucked, but Dean caught him, wouldn't let him go until he'd managed to reassure Sam that there was nothing about Sam's beast that he didn't love as well as he loved Sam, and that purring reminded him that Sam was more than a great big beautiful guy, he was this miraculous creature as well. 

Plus, that vibration on his dick was hot like motherfucking fire. 

God, what a night that had been. And Sam seemed to be aiming to top it this afternoon. Dean thrashed and moaned; the air was scented with the odor of crushed grass and Sam. He was sweating, one big fist wrapped round his long, slim, elegant dick, and entirely fucking beautiful. Sam kept up a steady purring around Dean's dick, drool dripping from the corners of his mouth and rolling down Dean's balls, wet and sloppy and hot.

He felt Sam buck, and grunt, smelled his release. It was the trigger he needed, muscles clenching suddenly, until like a sprung trap, he exploded. The flood of come inside Sam's mouth made it hotter and wetter and JeezKris, felt like he was coming endlessly. 

Afterward, Sam licked him from ass to neck, gently nibbling everything along the way, until he reached Dean's ear, and fucked his tongue in and out until Dean shuddered and bucked his hips in time with Sam—the brat. He knew what that did to him. 

Sam laughed, snagged Dean's t-shirt and cleaned them both up as best he could. 

"Damn it Sam, now I'm going to have to walk back in the house half-naked."

"Well, this way you'll be half-naked, but clean of crusted come."

"Shut up!" Dean laughed and shoved Sam away, and Sam rebounded, threw his arms around Dean and pushed him to the ground. 

After a bit, he whispered, soft and low, "I have a secret I want to tell you. You've always smelled so good to me, from the very first moment we met. But when my beast is out, I notice another thing about your scent." His voice dropped even lower, and his lips brushed Dean's ear. "We smell alike."

Dean looked at him, taking in the smirk, but also seeing the uneasiness, uncertainty in Sam's eyes. He could play it off, pretend like the reason they smelled alike was because they'd come all over each other...instead he said, "Yeah? Good. We're supposed to. I like that we do."

Sam looked out at the sun, and the tight little smirk eased into a dimple-bracketed smile. "Yeah. Me too."

"That's settled then. We're fine. Tell me again how we're, like, mates forever and you couldn't be happier."

"You are such a dork. But fuck me if it's not the truth."

~fin~

  
Phoenix1966


End file.
